


Heigh-ho, the Derry-o

by nightmaremagnet



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hunter!Elias, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Off screen Torture, Rough Sex, Threats of Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26206483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmaremagnet/pseuds/nightmaremagnet
Summary: The Dark is attempting their ritual, the Extinguished Sun, and an unprepared archives is looking for a way to stop it. When they find out Gertrude used to work with a Hunter named Elias Bouchard, they decide to get in contact and convince him to reestablish a partnership with Beholding.The only problem is that Hunters don’t play well with Avatars.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 44
Kudos: 139
Collections: Jonelias Week 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All my love to the Discord for their support and encouragement and the mods of Jonelias Week for putting this fest together!

“This is ridiculous. I can _walk_ ,” Jon says, as he’s shoved unceremoniously into a wheelchair and rolled through the halls of St George's Hospital.

“It’s a liability thing,” Tim says, shrugging. “Can’t have you taking a tumble and suing the hospital for negligence, can they?”

Jon crosses his arms petulantly, covering up a flinch when his hands bump against his poorly healing stomach wound. It’s been awhile since he’s had to worry about injuries and while he might spend his nights having moral panic attacks about the ethics of getting a good night’s sleep when the cost is the re-traumatization of innocent people, he can’t say he’s reveling at the reminder that there are still things out there that can hurt him, that can kill him, if he isn’t careful.

He doesn’t think himself immortal, but there’s no denying he’s been running around like he has a built in bullet proof vest on.

God, Jon thinks, a wave of shock washing over him, he could be in the morgue right now, all because a Hunter decided he was a villain, and it’s not even an accusation he can deny.

“I could have died,” Jon says, softly.

Tim hums dubiously but Jon ignores him.

The wound isn’t healing like it should and that’s an indisputable fact.

Or, rather, it’s healing exactly as it should, if Jon were Tim or Sasha or Martin. A slow, steady recuperation.

“I don’t know,” Tim says. “Doctors said it was only a graze.”

“They said it missed vital organs.”

“Because it was only a graze.”

Jon’s 99% certain Tim would be singing a different tune if he was the one who’d been carried to the hospital.

Jon glares at Sasha as she opens the door for Tim to wheel him out of the hospital.

She’s not entirely blameless here, either. _Sasha_ had been the one to find the Gertrude plus Hunter equals Teamwork statements and there’d been an uneasy _group decision_ that anyone Gertrude approved of to work with could probably be trusted to help them stop a ritual that they are far too in over their heads for.

The Extinguished Sun.

Even thinking the name sends a cold chill down Jon’s spine.

When Jon had first learned the People’s Church of the Divine Host planned such ceremonies, he had laughed. Of course a cult would believe in doomsday prophesies.

His laughter turned to alarm as research was conducted. Finding out that not only was the idea of unfathomable eldritch horrors being brought into their world not a one off sci-fi delusion concocted by Maxwell Rayner, but that each of the fourteen great Fears had one… That, for hundreds of years, they have been taken as legitimate threats to the world and fought for and against amongst avatars…

And here was Jon, with all the information about the next upcoming ritual and not a single idea of what to do with it.

He doesn’t have any of the connections Gertrude Robinson had. He doesn’t know who to go to with it or, preferably, who to pawn the responsibility off on.

And so they – himself, Sasha, Martin, and Tim – had sought to do the only thing they could do: look for help.

Which is how they came across the name _Elias Bouchard._

Avatar of the Hunt and, for all intents and purposes, contract killer.

On at least two occasions The Magnus Institute has paid out a fantastical sum of money to him, though Gertrude’s notes imply a far more lucrative quid pro quo relationship.

Jon spent the last two weeks alternating between searching for Elias Bouchard and hearing how _lovely_ he is, that he isn’t like the _other_ Hunters. He’ll _listen_ , he’ll be _curious_.

He’s _wonderful_ , really.

“I didn’t say that,” Sasha argues, “I wouldn’t say that.”

Tim makes a second drawn out, iffy sound and Martin backs him up with, “You did make him sound, I don’t know, kind of… safe?”

“Well, if I’d have known Jon was going to lip off, first thing…”

It’s like she doesn’t know him at all.

Or, well… maybe she does, because he’s never seen her look as guilty as she did when she flew into the emergency room at half past midnight, alternating between being terrified that he wasn’t okay and angry when he was.

Jon had barely caught a glimpse of Elias, dressed in black with the street lights behind him. Medium building, Jon recalls. Medium height, nothing off about his voice or intonation. Nothing useful, outside of the fact that Elias’ reaction to sarcasm leaves much to be desired.

“What _did_ you say, Jon?” Tim asks, not for the first time. “Because if I have to start a company wide betting pool to get you to fess up… you know I will.”

He does know. He’s been on the losing end enough times to be well aware of their effectiveness.

But Jon shrugs, wincing as the movement pulls at stitches. “Just… take me home. I want to go home. We can discuss it later.”

Jon’s pretty sure he hears Tim mumble something about eldritch beings getting cranky but he at least lets Jon walk the rest of the way to the car.

* * *

They don’t discuss it later, skirting carefully around the topic of Elias Bouchard.

Jon, because he knows Elias never would have shot him if he was Gertrude Robinson. She would have kept him in line, forced the issue and done what needed to be done in order to secure his alliance.

The others, because they hate when he compares himself to Gertrude.

The Dark’s ritual, the Extinguished Sun, is set to take place weeks from now, on the solar eclipse. Already, Jon knows they have begun.

While Jon is not flying blind without a plan, he is worried about the sheer numbers piled up against him. Adding a Hunter into the mix had seemed an optimal solution. Creating an alliance with the possibility of future benefits had felt inspired. Finding out that Gertrude, from high up on her pedestal, had thought similarly only cemented Jon’s belief that it would work.

It had taken weeks to track Elias down. Weeks, wasted chasing rumors and jumping through more and more convoluted hoops.

It had become, perhaps, something of an obsession. To know someone exists, have loaded miles of insubstantial proof of it, but See nothing.

Find nothing.

Most of what they knew about Elias couldn’t even be corroborated. He was there, in the statements. In the background, mentioned as a footnote in the traumatic events. Half the time coming off as the hero of the piece, saving the day at the last moment.

But there were also, far as Jon could tell, the more realistic interpretations. The ones where Elias missed his first shot, the ones where he got sloppy. The ones that showed he didn’t care if the whole town went down in flames, so long as his target did too.

Maybe there’s some leeway for anti-hero, Jon doesn’t know and now’s not the time to care. He just needs someone good at what they do, someone who can _win_.

Jon cringes at the realization that, now, that person is _him_. Alone. In the darkness.

Perhaps that’s why, when Elias at last showed up in Jon’s Sight, it had seemed a forgone conclusion that they would meet. They would get along. Elias had worked with the institute in the past and, after all the ridiculous stalking, it had felt that Jon knew him. They would easily renew that partnership.

…And then Elias shot him, and left him bleeding on the ground.

* * *

Jon wouldn’t say he has a tingling Spidey sense detecting some disturbance in the force (mostly because it would mortify him if anyone were to find out he has pop culture references) but he can think of no better word for it. A sudden nagging _itch_ telling him something is not as it should be and a sudden instinctive focus pulling his attention to where and why.

There’s an intruder in his home. A robber?

Jon is flabbergasted by being the victim of such mundane, common place criminality.

Which isn’t to say he’s pleased. He focuses his Sight outwards from one of the portraits on his wall as he reaches for the phone to dial the police.

The robber is facing away from the picture and doesn’t appear to be desperately rummaging through his things for valuables. They pick up a figurine sat on Jon’s shelf, inspect it with unhurried interest and drop it to the ground where it breaks and rolls away. Calm, idling, reaching for Jon’s books.

And then they stiffen, head tilting to the side and Jon knows they’ve sensed his presence.

Jon is thinks there’s not a Hunter alive who won’t notice when it’s being tracked. Just like that, Jon knows it’s Elias even before he turns around to face the picture and look directly into Jon’s symbolic eyes.

“Archivist,” Elias says, tipping his head in greeting. “How are you? Healing well, I hope.”

Jon drops his head into his hands and sets down the phone.

God damnit.

“Good to know,” Elias says, as though Jon has replied. “I thought I might pay you a visit. Alas, I must have just missed you.”

Elias pushes a lamp over as he walks past it.

Jon winces.

“Apologies,” he says, stepping on the lampshade as he heads to Jon’s desk, the lightbulb crunching sharply beneath his boot. “Rabid beasts can be so… temperamental.”

Jon glances sideways, guiltily looking for Tim as though it’s possible he could be eavesdropping in on Jon’s mind and win his stupid betting pool.

“It was,” Jon grumbles under his breath, “a _compliment._ ”

Jon hasn’t met many – any – Hunters, but by reputation alone, he’d been more than confident to label them such. Everyone else did, and from what he’s read, well…

As far as Jon can see, Elias is the best of the worst. Certainly one step above…

Fine. Perhaps he could have phrased it better.

Or kept his observations to himself.

Elias opens Jon’s desk drawers and pulls out papers, folders. He picks up a picture of Tim, Sasha, and Martin from a company picnic three years ago, before Jon’s life crashed down around him and he was left to pick up the scraps of self Beholding let him keep.

Jon looks up at Elias through their eyes and Elias says, “Cute,” before giving Jon the strangest case of vertigo he’s ever experienced as he folds the photo and shoves it in his pocket.

Shit.

Jon scrambles for his phone, dialing his landline. It’s one thing when the threat is directed at himself and his possessions, but Jon feels cold terror shiver down his spine to know Elias has his friends tucked away in his coat.

He listens to the phone ringing in his home. “Pick up,” he hisses between clenched teeth.

Elias looks around, eyes scanning for the phone.

“Pick. Up.”

“No,” Elias says slowly. “I don’t think this is a situation that requires discussion.”

Elias runs his hands along Jon’s desk as he walks around it. He stops, curls his fingers around the edge and it seems a bit too effortless when Elias flips it over. Unnatural.

Elias continues his sauntering pace around Jon’s home, casually destroying whatever might be in his investigative path. Knocking down paintings, overturning his bookcase with an easy shove; it’s intrusive and violating to watch his _home_ be so easily invaded and his valued possessions carelessly ruined like useless junk.

Elias walks down the hallway where Jon is unable to follow. It never occurred to him to keep eyes in absolutely every nook and cranny of his place. An oversight he’ll be sure to correct once this invasion is through.

Elias is invisible to Jon’s Eyes for mere seconds before he emerges back the way he came.

Silently, he walks through the mess of Jon’s office, his living room, his foyer and out the door.

Jon breathes out a sigh of relief.

Maybe he had it coming, maybe he didn’t, but there’s no denying the score is settled now. They can go on with their lives as though they’d never met.

* * *

Dug into his hallway is the image of a closed eye, gouged deep into his drywall.

* * *

Having his home broken into and his things destroyed elicits a fair amount of sympathy from the others.

Sasha guiltily asks if he’d like help picking up. Jon’s in a right mood about how this has played out, but it isn’t her fault. Or, at least, no more her fault than his own. Certainly she wouldn’t have pressed the idea of finding Elias if Jon had declined.

Tim dials up ikea.com. He explains that this whole fiasco is going on the corporate card as a ‘business expense’ and, if Jon plays his cards right with the ‘big boss,’ he can probably upgrade all his old furniture to boot.

Martin, always attentive on the best of days, offers Jon a place to sleep in his flat, at least until Jon fixes his locks and feels safe going home again. Even though, months earlier when _Martin’s_ home had not been safe, Jon had only offered him storage space at the institute.

They’ve all banded together to help him. Again.

Jon realizes, for the first time, that these three people aren’t his co-workers, mutually trapped in fucked up work contract with him – or, they are, of course, but also… these are his friends. His best friends. Family. And he will kill to keep them safe.

Which is a thing that might become a reality very soon.

…he does wish this epiphany had occurred to him after a less hellish week, though.

The carved symbol in his hallway feels like a message that Jon is meant to reply to but, as it turns out, Elias has effectively vanished off the face of the earth once more.

Jon doesn’t know how he does it, but if Elias had gone and gotten himself burned to ash it would be easier for Jon’s Eyes to find him.

But no… No, Elias is alive, Jon would know if he weren’t, he’s just…

Frustratingly invisible.

Which makes it rather hard to debate if he should or should not reply.

* * *

It is not, for the record, Jon exploiting Martin’s pathological need to be useful when he sets Martin to the task of gathering clues as to how Elias has done it. He just assumed Tim and Sasha would say ‘no.’

He gave _explicit_ orders that Martin was not to leave the Institute to actively go searching so Jon doesn’t feel it’s his fault when Martin shows up to work, shaken and pale, cornering Jon in his office and saying, “So I, um, I think – or, I _know_ , where Elias, y’know… is.”

Jon glances out his office door, sees no eavesdroppers, and shuts it.

He immediately wants to ask ‘where’ but Martin looks like he’s about to lose his lunch all over Jon’s floor so instead he ushers Martin into a chair and goes with the more foreign path of… expressing concern. “Are you okay?”

Martin looks worlds away from ‘okay’ but, well.

Jon wasn’t hired for his people skills and he’s banking on Martin not begrudging him for it.

“I – yeah. I guess? I mean, I wasn’t shot or anything.”

Jon winces at the jab as the next words out of Martin’s mouth might make him deserve the ‘world’s worst boss’ mug Tim had unironically gifted him after Prentis attacked.

“What happened?”

Surrounded by the safety of The Magnus Institute, Martin’s hands have stopped shaking quite so badly, though he visibly cringes when he pulls out an envelop from his bag, shoving it at Jon like he wants nothing to do with the thing.

The envelope is addressed to Martin, in elegant cursive script. Inside it is a letter, written on stationary paper, the logo brand of a hotel in the top center.

Jon glances at Martin, confirming he has permission, before he begins to read.

Martin grimaces.

Jon smooths the paper out, noting that the letter itself is written in dark, rusted ink that begins to flake when he pulls the paper between his hands. Jon frowns at the faint metallic scent of…

He blanches.

Blood.

A letter literally written in blood.

It’s Jon’s turn for his hands to shake. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, shocked.

He wants to drop it. He wants to throw it in the bin, light it on fire and never speak of it again.

The pull of Beholding to find out what it says is almost painful.

Jon scans the first few lines, surprised by what he reads. “It’s a…”

“Statement. Yeah.”

“You read it?”

Martin shrugs.

It’s a terrible statement. Words crossed over, written outside the lines, pieces missing. It isn’t a story told with the Eye’s guiding hand enhancing the prose.

It’s signed ‘Natalie Ennis’ and Jon doesn’t need Beholding to know there will be no follow up.

Jon looks at Martin, at a loss for words. “I… I’m sorry, Martin.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, breathing out a sigh of relief like he thought Jon was more likely to scold him. “Yeah, I know.”

“Martin. Don’t tell anyone about this. Let’s… keep it between us?”

Martin looks away, unhappily considering the request.

“It’s just,” Martin says, at length. “I mean, no one ever says that because they have a good idea.”

“I don’t want to worry the others.”

“I get that, okay, because I know what this is,” not that Elias was especially subtle about the invitation, “and I’m not gonna– I’m not going to drug your tea or whatever, so you _can’t_ go, but not telling the others, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Or maybe, Jon thinks, watching Martin play with the hem of his sleeves, _Martin_ needs the others to know. That it’s him who needs the support. It’s selfish of Jon to deny him that, when Martin’s gone so far out of his way to have his back.

Jon washes his hands over his face, turning away from Martin as he considers. “That message he sent–”

“That he broke into your house and knifed into your wall? That one, that’s the one you’re talking about, right?”

“I know he doesn’t want the Dark to win,” and Elias, unlike them, has a history of succeeding at stopping rituals. “And neither do we. Maybe he knows something we don’t, or– or we know something he doesn’t. He wants to pool our resources?”

“I don’t like this Jon,” Martin says, pointing at the letter. “That’s not okay.”

“Just… give me one day. I’ll be there and back and… I’ll be polite.” Jon adds with a wry smile.

Martin stares at him with uncharacteristically hard eyes that remind Jon he is a savant at understanding people. Jon knows there are underlying reasons Martin’s had to learn to spot tics and tells and how to side step them, but he has on more than one occasion found it unfair that Martin can so effortlessly use it to his advantage.

Martin is the reason they don’t have poker nights.

“Call me when you get there,” Martin says.

“Okay. Yes. Thank you.”

“ _And_ when you leave.”

“Of course.”

“And come right back here.”

Jon realizes, with a frown he keeps hidden, that he deserves this checklist of safety precautions Martin is laying out.

It’s strange that he feels touched instead of humiliated. He’s sure anyone else would be insulted, but it’s… nice. That someone will be waiting for his call.

“I will. Thank you, Martin. Truly.”

“Yeah…”

* * *

The hotel isn’t the type of place Jon associates with Hunt. Though, he supposes, his healthy streak of self-hatred is always telling him Avatar’s don’t deserve nice things.

There’s a concierge at the desk, one who values the anonymity of the hotel’s residents.

Bypassing secrets isn’t much of a challenge for Jon these days.

The room number Jon steals from the man’s unwilling lips is like a black hole to Jon’s senses. Enough of one that he’s terrified this is a trap set up by the Dark. He can only hope it is Elias and Elias alone in that room when he knocks.

The door opens part way and Jon gets his first good look at Elias; for all the lies that surround this man, the cruelty and death, Elias doesn’t look like anything special. Monied, maybe, from his tailored clothes and the nice hotel, but normal. Everyday.

“Archivist,” Elias says in silky voice, cultured and rich. “Quite honestly, I wasn’t expecting you,” he adds as though believing Jon too cowardly to pick up Elias’ gauntlet.

Jon scowls but bites his tongue. Rising to the bait is what landed him in the hospital last time.

Elias smirks. “So, you’ve come to play nice?” It’s the smirk that gets under Jon’s skin more than the words. “Very well. Your weapons?” Elias says, holding out his hand to take them.

“I–I don’t have any.”

Elias narrows his eyes.

“ _I don’t._ ”

Elias steps aside to let him enter. “You should know, Archivist, if you’re relying on Beholding to keep you safe… well, it won’t be _my_ secrets sating your god.”

“Not a god,” Jon grumbles. Again. _Playing nice this time_. Because he’s a team player. Making alliances.

Elias laughs and shuts the door behind them.

With his back to Elias, Jon closes his eyes. Alone in a room with a Hunter. A Hunter that has already shot him once. God, he hopes he’s not actually the impulsive idiot his friends paint him as.

Jon holds his breath while Elias circles around to face him, taking his time and standing too close, crowding him in. Elias fixes him with a razor sharp, evaluating gaze. They’re the same height, same build, but Jon doesn’t fancy his chances if things go sideways.

Jon speaks first. “Should I be worried _you_ have weapons?”

Elias reaches behind himself, pulling a godawful overcompensating murder weapon of a knife from his waistband. “Yes, apparently so,” Elias says, turning it in his hand. The blade, curved and serrated, catches the light and shines brightly in Jon’s eyes.

“Great,” Jon mutters, regarding the knife warily. He imagines it cutting into Natalie Ennis, again and again, as Elias forced her to write, using her own blood as ink.

Jon sucks in a breath through his teeth and reminds himself he is not the prey here. It was the worst invitation to anything Jon’s ever received but it was an invitation none the less, not a trap.

Jon says, “You won’t need that.”

“No, I suspect not.”

“You didn’t need a weapon last time, either.”

“The last time? When you were hunting me, you mean?”

Jon blinks, taken aback by the accusation. ‘Hunting’ is a very strong word for what essentially boiled down to asking around and reading filed documents. “That wasn’t– I wanted to talk. I _want_ to talk.”

“Perhaps. Though it’s my experience that people who are used to being underestimated soon learn it has its advantages.”

Jon scoffs. “I wouldn’t know. I just get shot.”

“I think you’re still using it to your advantage, but…” Elias looks at the knife in his hand before sliding it back into its sheath, hidden from sight. “I know what you want now.”

“Yeah,” Jon says, frowning. “Which is something you could have _said_ instead of destroying my house.”

Elias shrugs, unrepentant. “Word to the wise?” Elias says, stepping back and giving Jon room to breathe, “Don’t hunt Hunters.”

Elias walks deeper into the suite and Jon takes it as his cue to follow.

The bed’s been remade by hotel staff, corners tucked in with two mints on each pillow. A suitcase is sat on the dresser and duffle bag beneath it. A dozen movie scenarios of luggage filled with nothing but guns and cash cross Jon’s mind.

How much would clean up cost if Elias killed him now? How much money to make people look the other way? Scrub blood out of the white carpet and ask no questions…

He swallows thickly and pushes the thought from his mind. He wants to give Elias some contrary, pithy reply but hearing the repetition of the warning feels differently than when he thinks it in his head.

Maybe Elias’ overreaction wasn’t bred from petty maliciousness, but from anger. True… concern.

Jon, who knows he’s no great threat, fumbling along, backtracks and thinks of how he would feel in Elias’ position. What his own reaction would be, to find out that the Avatar of a power known for its Sight had him in its crosshairs. A new Archivist, still unknown in the world and untested, was searching for a way to corner him.

With Elias’ reputation, Jon – all of them – had just assumed…

But putting himself in Elias’ shoes, just thinking about it, sends a chill up his spine. “Alright,” he agrees, sitting when Elias gestures to a chair. “I’m… sorry.” Jon says, trying not to work up too many feelings on the topic. Elias is still a serial killer, after all.

“Are you, really?” And maybe Elias _was_ angry, maybe he _was_ worried, but there’s no mistaking the toying amusement that it has since mutated into.

Elias goes to the sidebar, taking out a tumbler and filling two glasses.

“Why would I lie?” Jon scowls. “Just, in the future, don’t take it out on Martin. He’s been through a lot recently and—”

“If my account hadn’t been flagged, I wouldn’t have sent the _statement_.” Elias interrupts sharply, like he wants Jon to know there’s nothing he can get away with that Elias won’t know.

The only problem is that this new accusation has come out of nowhere.

Jon’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “What?” he asks.

He hasn’t touched Elias’ account, wouldn’t know how even if he wanted to.

… _He_ wouldn’t, but he imagines he has co-workers who could have done.

Elias narrows his eyes and Jon squares his shoulders and doesn’t stammer out a defense. Elias is crediting him with more skills and foresight than he possesses and that is not a bad thing.

“Regardless,” Elias continues, “at present there is no future.”

“Oh. I thought, since you left that, er, statement…”

“Hmm,” Elias hums, returning to Jon and leaning down to offer him a glass.

The strong scent of whiskey is as distracting as Elias’ eyes, sharp with focus and the clear enjoyment of pinning Jon in place under the weight of his attention. “That I was ready to serve you?”

Unnerved, Jon takes the glass and frowns at the overstatement.

God, Tim would _love_ that.

Another dramatic Avatar.

“That you would help,” Jon corrects.

Elias falls back into the chair opposite him, full of predator grace, natural as breathing. He takes a sip and lets the silence stretch. It’s awkward and terrible, but Elias has his head tipped thoughtfully to the side and Jon doesn’t want to break his musing.

Jon is right, the mission is right, there’s no other conclusion that can be reached. The ball is in Elias’ court and all he can do is wait.

At length, Elias spreads his hands in offering and says, “Convince me.”

“What?” Jon asks, incredulously.

“You didn’t think I’d be grateful for the opportunity to babysit academics, did you?”

“It will just be me, actually.”

Elias raises his eyebrow, unmoved.

Jon wants to ask Elias if he likes living in the world, because that sure as hell is one thing Elias won’t be doing if the People’s Church succeeds. He wants to snap that Elias is a petty, terrorizing asshole and _the least_ he can do is take it out on someone who deserves it.

He wants to scream a dozen frustrated things, but instead he bites his tongue and uses his brain. Pays a modicum of attention to Elias himself and not the bigger picture.

There’s a look in Elias’ eyes, wild and unpredictable. A glimmer that makes Jon certain he is not half the sophisticated assassin he projects to the world. He wants to tear something apart. He wants to make Jon anxious and scared, to watch him squirm beneath his gaze.

He wants to make it hurt.

It’s too risky to peek inside his head and know for sure; if Elias notices, god knows what his reaction will be. Jon is left to guess. To chance a manipulation and hope bravado will carry him through. “It’ll be fun.”

“Pardon?”

“Dangerous.”

“You don’t strike me as the ‘danger and fun’ type.”

Jon nods in agreement. “But we don’t need the same motivation for going. _I_ have to know, I need to see. It is… something I presume needn’t be explained to you,” one Avatar to another. “And I think, with your help, I’ll _succeed_. But I’m going because I have to.”

Elias leans back, steepling his fingers around his drink. “Compelling,” he says, “but that wasn’t what I meant. I don’t work for free.”

“If it’s money you want…” Jon says, hoping and doubting that it will be that easy.

“It is not.”

“Figured. Then what?”

Elias considers, watching Jon thoughtfully.

“Nothing springs to mind, just now. Perhaps an I-owe-you.”

“No,” Jon says, at once.

“Yes. If you want _me_ to follow you to Norway, that is my price. A favor from the Archivist.”

“Norway?” Jon asks, mind drawing a momentary blank before he realizes Elias thinks they’re going to Ny-Ålesund. “How did you…” Jon begins, trailing off as he realizes it doesn’t matter how Elias knows about the numerous locations the cult has set up. “No, there’s a temple here that should suffice to derail their ritual.”

Elias scrunches his nose in distaste. “Norway,” he repeats.

“Why _?_ ”

“That’s where Maxwell Rayner is,” Elias says, as though the answer is obvious.

Maxwell Rayner is the very last thing Jon wants to confront head on, even with Elias’ support, and the casual way he’s invoked as a valid reason…

“Be that as it may,” Jon says, “our plan is to target the Hithergreen temple.”

“I’m sure it was.”

“The _plan_ , Elias. There is no plan for Ny-Ålesund.”

“I take it the ritual is in March? The day of the eclipse?”

Jon nods.

“Plenty of time then,” Elias concludes.

Jon scrutinizes him, trying to see past the passive face, the eyes that gleam with intelligence and the smirking lips.

This is not ‘plenty of time’ to Jon and he cannot _know_ Elias to see if he really believes what he’s saying.

Ny-Ålesund is where the major players are. The ones who hold the chess pieces of the board Jon wants to knock over.

For all that Jon trusts his team, they do not have the power or experience to go up against the best of the best.

Elias overestimates Jon to their detriment.

“I repeat,” Jon says, teeth clenching in frustration. “Why?”

“Let’s just say… it’s always nice to catch up with old friends. And, if you die, the price is a moot point anyways.”

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

“Of all the irresponsible, jackass things you could have done, Jonathan Sims!” Sasha says, taking the news of Jon’s meeting with Elias Bouchard well.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, helpless to think of anything else that won’t sound defensive and confrontational.

She narrows her eyes at him.

“So, Elias is– he’s working with us now?” Martin asks, biting his lip.

“ _No_ ,” Jon snaps, instinctively protective when he sees the haunted look in Martin’s eyes. Elias is the second _thing_ that has made Martin feel unsafe in his own home and now being asked to play nice…

“Sure,” Tim says, “except what you meant to say was ‘yes’, right?”

“He’s not working with _us_. Elias is… he’s my problem. I’ll deal with him.”

“The hell you will,” Tim bites back.

“Pardon?”

“We’re a team, Jon.” Sasha says, over enunciating the words like she doesn’t trust Jon to keep up if she speaks too quickly. “We’re in this together.”

Jon can’t stop the smile that twitches at his lips.

Sasha’s angry. He went behind their backs to see Elias; she’s going to be mad for awhile now, and still she’s here, defending him.

“Wipe that smirk of your face,” she says, not unkindly.

“Right. Yes. …sorry.”

She rolls her eyes. “Did you at least find out anything new?”

“Uh,” Jon stalls, thinking of hidden knives and IOUs, “Such as?”

“You mean,” Tim asks Sasha, “did he leave his passport and National Insurance Number laying out on the table?”

“I wouldn’t snub my nose at it,” Sasha admits. “But I _think_ we’ve pinpointed the right Elias Bouchard.”

Tim raises his eyebrows. “Wait, really?”

Jon winces, remembering Elias’ warning on hunting Hunters and accounts being flagged, but still asks, “What did you find?” with genuine curiosity.

“I was really hoping this could be filed away to collect dust in the archives,” Sasha says, failing to look half as aggrieved as her words suggest, “but if he’s going to be part of the team–” 

“I really wouldn’t go that far…” Jon cautions.

“For the time being, then.” She amends, pausing to consider where to start this new debrief. “We _,_ ” Sasha says, with a sideways glance at Martin, “decided to dig in a different direction. A non- _spooky_ direction,” she adds, emphasizing the word like she wants to hurt him with its tacky glory.

Jon pinches the bridge of his nose.

He hates how desperately curious he is for their intel and how they all must know that. Performative protests to the contrary, he will grab that information with both hands.

“Well,” Sasha begins, “you know how there’s more than one ‘Elias Bouchard’ in the world?”

Nine, to be exact.

Jon scowls inwardly at Beholding for implanting that useless factoid in his head.

“I mean,” Martin interjects, “honestly we just, y’know, did a google search, but, um…”

“You tracked them all down?” Jon asks, adding under his breath, “stalkers.”

“Er… something like that,” Martin confirms. “We weren’t going to mention – why would we? – but…”

“So? What did you find?”

“Inconsistencies,” Sasha says. “Turns out, one of them _really_ likes to travel. Almost as much as he likes to keep his bank account full.” Sasha says, with a thoughtful air that maybe she would have held off releasing the Co2 on Jane Prentis if she knew there was a lucrative career to be made of it.

“So?”

“ _And_ no living relatives, no high school reunions, long defunct medical and employment records. Some time after college he just… cut all ties. And he never made new ones.”

“How… did you find this?” Jon asks, shooting a wary glance at the computers.

“Mostly just, y’know, impersonating maintenance workers and stuff.” Martin corrects.

Sasha tosses Martin a conspiratorial look. “Always ask for the name of the person you’re talking to,” she says, “might come in handy.”

Jon has less morals these days about using Beholding to snag a few embarrassing stories out of people for a little… harmless blackmail, but if _National Security_ shows up with handcuffs…

“Let’s keep that to a last resort, next time,” Jon says.

Tim shrugs. “Seems a victim-less crime. It’s not like anyone’s been hurt.”

Jon raises his eyebrows, incredulously. “Excuse me?”

“ _Some_ of us have been hurt,” Tim amends, “but it’s not exactly will-and-testament, fighting over who gets to read out the eulogy,” Tim elaborates while pointing to Martin, as though this has been previously discussed, “is it?”

Jon frowns, unhappy with the lack of gravitas the entire endeavor is being given. He turns back to Sasha. “So, identity fraud?” Jon asks, getting them back on track. “Where’s the original Elias?”

“Dead, probably.” Tim says, ominously.

“ _Or_ ,” Sasha adds, “he never existed.”

Tim shrugs. “I’m just saying, one’s more likely than the other.”

There’s a short pause before Martin asks what they’re all thinking. “Which? He _is_ an assassin. How hard is it to, I don’t know, create an alias? Do you even _need_ to ‘know a guy’ or can you just maybe bribe a few randoms?”

“Regardless,” Sasha says, “if that Hunter has always been ‘Elias Bouchard’ I’ll eat my hat.”

“But not the beret,” Tim says quickly, “We need that one for poetry slam.”

“You do poetry slams?” Jon asks. Not accusingly. Of course. He doesn’t like poetry and certainly would not enjoy making an evening of it. Even if they had asked him to tag along.

Which they hadn’t.

Martin shrugs, looking shy, and no one denies it.

Jon sternly reminds himself that not everything is for _him;_ there are areas of their lives he doesn’t fit into and he shouldn’t try to.

“Yes, well. So long as it’s not on company time.” Jon sniffs, stupidly jealous, and Tim salutes agreement. “Regardless, I think–”

“You still can’t see him, can you, Jon?” Sasha asks, with a hopeful air. While it’s damn near physically harrowing to be so blocked off from Beholding as to not see a whisper of Elias, Sasha has seemed more frustrated than him about the roadblock.

Jon tries again to get a good look in on Elias. He even closes his eyes to focus his senses outward.

No luck.

He shakes his head. “Sorry.”

* * *

There are consequences for straining to use his abilities. Prices that need to be paid. He hasn’t told the others and, so long as he keeps paying up, Jon sees no reason for them to ever know the truth.

But, if he’s going to be feeding the Eye a double feast, he’d also like to get something useful from the experience.

Jon sits in the archives, concentrating, meditating almost, for a good two hours before he begins picking out statements at random for the week ahead. It’s a small trick that works half the time, when he wants to find stories relevant to his problems.

The jury’s out on this round. Many are historical letters, circa 1814 – 1890. There are references to Maxwell Rayner himself and a few that touch upon the Forever Blind in general, but nothing to give Jon any foreshadowing hints about the ritual.

It doesn’t take long before Jon begins to feel like _he’s_ the one living in the nineteenth century, re-experiencing a series of Gregorian sensibilities and idealism. Any day now he’s going to start tipping his head in respect to every woman who crosses his path and retiring after dinner for brandy and cigars.

There’s a second theme amongst the statements, and it’s one Jon finds just as uncomfortable:

Jonah Magnus.

There’s enough overlap in the details to confirm a loose friendship between Rayner and Magnus and that they travelled in the same social circles, but for the most part…

The connection amongst the statements, chosen at random, is too great to overlook, but Jon can’t see how Jonah’s life is significant to the People’s Church, either then or now.

* * *

Elias’ idea of ‘plenty of time’ is, in actuality, a fortnight and when he told Jon he’d ‘be in touch’ Jon had thought he’d meant that, well, he’d _be in touch_.

God, it’s like every high school group project that Jon did the work for while others took credit.

His team doesn’t leave him in a lurch, but after a certain point there’s not a lot more to do than twiddle his thumbs and let nerves keep him up through the night.

He does his best. There’s no use being early and making a target of themselves, when it has to be the night of; the last available moment to crash down centuries of built up power.

Too early and the Dark will have power enough to reschedule.

Jon’s more than grateful to hear a knock outside his office door, distracting him from thoughts that he’d rather avoid until problematically necessary.

“Come in,” Jon calls back.

The door doesn’t open.

Jon looks up, frowning at it.

“Come in?” he offers again.

He stares a moment at the closed door before shrugging. Tim, perhaps, walking past and giving a knock as a joke. Or maybe a common auditory hallucination, the mind anticipating a sound to occur from background noise.

The knock comes a second time. “Oh, for the love of,” Jon grumbles under his breath. “Yes?” he says, louder. “Come in.”

The door doesn’t open.

Jon stands up, crossing the office and yanking the door open. “What?” he snaps, not honestly surprised to see no one on the other side.

But there’s something else amiss that makes his stomach sink; the lights are off in the archives and the office space is bathed in darkness.

Jon’s first thought is the People’s Church and things that go bump in the night. Violent shadows underneath churches, stalking monsters when you’re trying to sleep, the Sandman. Just like Jane Prentis except Jon is older now, not in years but in power. He thought he was better than to let these monsters ambush his friends.

His innate cowardice wars with his possessive need to see his team safe and he takes a step forward, only to hear a creak and breathy chuckle coming from behind him.

Jon startles and whirls back around, shocked to find he is no longer alone in his office. His jaw drops at the realization someone has genuinely intruded on his archives without the Eye giving him the slightest warning.

A black shadow-shape in the corner of the room materializes into solid form as it steps forward.

Jon steps back, nerves only slightly mollified as the light catches the creature and Elias is revealed to be the monster.

“That,” Jon says, words clipped and angry, “was not funny.”

“My apologies.”

Jon looks from Elias to the door, then back at Elias with a frown. “How the hell did you…?”

“Would you believe ghosts? Hmm, no? Perhaps acoustics?”

“How did you get in here?” Jon snaps.

Elias sighs when Jon crosses his arms and refuses to play along. “Oh, this old place hasn’t been updated since Jonah Magnus himself commissioned it,” he says, looking fondly at the walls. “It’s quirks are centuries old.”

“I’m sure they took out the lead and asbestos at some point,” Jon says, unhappy with Elias invading his Archives.

Elias turns an irritating ‘you’re awkward but I accept that about you’ look on him

“And you really do need a visitors pass to be down here.”

Infuriatingly, Elias ignores him and pulls out a chair to sit across from his desk. “What have you found?”

Jon sighs and takes a seat as well. “Manuela Dominguez.”

“Go on.”

“She’s a member of the People’s Church and is personally affiliated with Rayner. She… have you heard of the Daedalus space station?”

“There have been rumors.”

Jon isn’t sure if that’s Elias’ way of saying ‘no, but I won’t admit it’ or ‘yes, and I know more than you.’

He groans inwardly and decides a brief summation won’t hurt either way. “It was… a joint venture, I suppose. With the Fairchilds, Lukases, and Rayner. For whatever reason, but for our purposes, Rayner is the only one who is relevant.”

“I’m quite sure he’d be thrilled.”

Jon’s quite sure he wouldn’t be, all things considered.

“Manuela Dominguez was a scientist on board the ship.” Jon says, going through his folders to find the pertinent statements, in case Elias would like to see the proof for himself. “A mad scientist, actually. She studied dark matter, dark energy, and dark radiation. I assume she was skilled at it. Skilled enough to catch Rayner’s attention…” Jon pulls out Manuela’s statement and looks back up at Elias, only to find him thumbing through Jon’s personal dietary statements, a look of wry amusement on his face.

“Are _you_ paying attention?”

“Hmm?” Elias asks, eyes glittering and looking at Jon without a hint of remorse. “Oh. Yes, Dr. Evil’s Acme Lab… in space. Carry on.”

Jon sighs. “Yes, well, Manuela came back with a bit more than genetically enhanced mice. She succeeded in harnessing dark energy.”

“Pardon?”

“She created a black star.”

“How?”

“She’s a mad scientist,” Jon repeats. It’s what mad scientists _do_. “And I believe _that_ is what is being hidden in Ny-Ålesund.”

Elias leans back in his seat, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “Impressive.”

“Thank you.”

Elias shoots him a perplexed look and Jon blushes, realizing Elias had been speaking of Manuela’s accomplishments and not Jon’s own research.

He decides to play it off as a cocky, egotistical quip and move on. “It’s their focal point. If we’re going to Ny-Ålesund, that will be our goal.”

“To destroy it?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I… I’ll know when I see it.”

“Well, would you look at that. Quite a lot of confidence for someone in over their head,” Elias says, eyes bright with amusement.

“I guess it is.”

“And if you’re wrong and you don’t have your Watcher’s epiphany?”

It’s something Jon has been purposefully not thinking about. He doesn’t like admitting aloud that, when his back is against the wall and there’s no way out, he trusts Beholding to see him through.

If anyone could understand that brand of trust, it would be another Avatar and if Elias were any but the Hunt, he might consider explaining. As it stands, Jon says, “Your chance of survival is better than mine.”

“That’s not the compliment you think it is, Jon.”

Jon shrugs. “We’ll leave the day before the eclipse.”

Elias nods, thoughtfully. “And in the meantime?”

“…don’t leave town?”

“May I ask you a question, Archivist?” Elias asks, voice measured and polite, but also like he’s expecting to be told ‘no.’

Probably because that’s the answer Elias himself would give.

“Of course,” Jon says, not seeing the harm in refusing to answer after the fact, should Elias’ question be too personal.

“What are these?” Elias asks, tapping Jon’s pile of personal statements.

“What are they? Stories that have been sent in or collected, for the institute, detailing paranormal events. Those ones in particular aren’t pertinent to the Dark, however.”

“They look old.”

Yellowed paper, brittle and stained. “They are old,” Jon says, suspicious of Elias’ narrowing down his inquiries, like he’s leading up to something.

Jon’s long since stopped believing in innocent questions.

“Have you read them, then?”

Jon watches him, trying to figure out if Elias is truly curious or if there is a secondary reason for extending the meeting.

“I’ll answer,” Jon says, “if I can ask a question in return.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Your name.”

“Elias?”

Jon stiffens at the easy loophole Elias immediately took advantage of.

“Your first name. The name you were born with.”

Elias’ eyes rake over him, like he’s seeing Jon for the first time, or reevaluating past assumptions. Realizing that Jon is more than ‘the new Archivist,’ and that he could potentially be a genuine threat.

Elias drums his fingers on the table. Over Jon’s statements. His nails are sharp, not unlike claws, and Jon worries they’re going to stab into the paper.

“I see,” Elias responds at length. “You are the Archivist. Have you considered… Asking?”

Jon narrows his eyes. “I am asking.” Moreover, he is not a carnival act, performing tricks for the crowd. “The Magnus Institute does more than compel people. We research as well. Because no one’s previously looked into your history doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”

Elias raises his eyebrows, but Jon stares back, unmoved.

“Tell me,” Elias asks. “How do you sleep at night?”

“Pardon?”

“Pleasant dreams?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“You’re quite young, aren’t you? How many victims do you have locked away in your nightmare museum? Five? Ten?” Elias pauses to give him time to answer. Jon clenches his jaw. “Is it worth it? Is it _fun?_ ” Elias asks, like Jon has a side hustle, scamming patrons on quiz nights at the pub. “Of course it is. Human suffering is a psychological mind state, isn’t it? And you are once removed. The outside observer. It’s not your fault they were targets. You are just an archive, collecting stories.”

Jon isn’t surprised that Elias, who’d been a known acquaintance of Gertrude’s, knows about his dreams – or, about the role statement givers play in them – but he’s profoundly uncomfortable discussing it with _Elias_ when he hasn’t yet confided it to his friends.

“I don’t blame you, of course,” Elias continues. “It’s Beholding’s nature to scout and spy and hoard. And its… its power is quite seductive, isn’t it?"

“What’s your point?”

“More of an observation,” Elias concedes. “Here’s another observation, _Archivist_ : Gertrude was the worst Archivist I have ever known. Do you want to know why, Jon? Because she wanted more for herself than to become an all seeing receptacle fueling the Watcher.”

Elias’ criticism pierces into him and lodges painfully in his heart. The worst things he’s thought about himself, the psychological mindfucks that fill him with terror and stress, that keep him up all night, thrown in his face to score cheap points for a petty win.

Jon swallows it down, as he always does, and stares back at Elias with hard eyes and fragile strength. “That’s fair, “ Jon says. “I have used Beholding’s power judiciously, in some cases. Unfairly, in others. But have never caused, nor believed in, _acceptable_ collateral damage and I would never elevate myself to judge, jury, and executioner.” Jon doesn’t raise his voice, imitating the casual cruelty Elias doles out like it’s his right to condemn avatar’s while absolving himself of their same sins. “Maybe you know my nature, I couldn’t say. I know that I’ve learned more than enough about yours to take your _observations_ with a pinch of salt.”

Elias stares at him, incredulously. “Whatever would possess you to say that?”

Jon shrugs. “If you’re going to kill me, wait until after the eclipse.”

Elias chuckles. “Very well,” he says, standing up to leave, but before he does he plants both hands on Jon’s desk and leans over. “Pry into my business again, and I’ll take your eyes.”

Jon really, really wants a cigarette.

* * *

It’s yet another week before Elias gets in touch again, by way of a packet appearing on his desk. There’s no mystery to it, as there had been Martin’s. ‘Ny-Ålesund’ is written in Elias’ flowery script on the outside

Jon opens the folder like tearing off a band aid, quick and expecting pain.

Inside are full page glossy photographs of Maxwell Rayner’s compound.

Well. That answers his questions as to what Elias planned on doing while Jon spent his days researching.

Recon.

Impressive, though Elias has probably done this a dozen times or more. Professional.

Jon looks through the sheets, cataloguing what Elias has found. Satellite radar imaging, blurry and shadowed like the technology had struggled against its paranormal subject. There are cars littering the site and close up pictures of their license plates. Snapshots of walls that take Jon an age to figure out. When he sets his Eyes on the picture he’s met with a blackhole absence of knowledge, his Eyes as blocked from the Dark as they are from Elias.

He can just make out dark shapes, in the pictures, on the ceiling and corners and with them the memory of a statement, shadows without a solid body to cast them. Violent silhouettes that can lift a man into the air and tear him limb from limb.

Logically, Jon knows it must have been a long, close up lens, but Jon would fully believe if someone told him Elias entered that building on his own.

Jon knows some of the faces in the photographs; he’s seen them from statement follow ups but most… most are unknowns.

They don’t look how he wants them to look. They aren’t done up like beautiful gothic dolls, dressed to celebrate their accomplishments. Manuela isn’t wearing a dirty lab coat, her hair isn’t in disarray. None of them fit the role of their patron, not like Jane had. Not like Michael. You could pass these people on the street and be none the wiser.

They’re just… people. People that he will be expected to kill. Even Rayner doesn’t have the decency to wear reflective glasses and walk with a rottweiler for his seeing eye dog.

He looks perfectly normal in all but one picture; and that picture catches and holds Jon’s attention.

Rayner’s head is turned to the camera, milky white eyes looking up as though seeing right into the lens, as though looking straight at Jon and seeing into the heart of him.

Hold old is Rayner? As old as Edmond Halley. Does his consciousness go further back than that?

Incredibly old or impossibly ancient?

Does he know they’re coming?

Jon hopes, he really does, that Elias was being truthful when he called Rayner an old friend.

Friends know each other’s weaknesses.

“Knock, knock?”

Jon startles at Tim’s voice outside his office, opening his door before Jon has a chance to invite him in.

Jon holds up the photographs and asks, “I don’t suppose you saw the Hunter who dropped these off?”

“Tall, dark, and handsome?”

Jon straightens. It hadn’t been intended as a question Jon expected an answer to, merely using it as a segue. To find out Elias has been _engaging_ with his co-workers raises all of Jon’s protective instincts.

“Oh-ho,” Tim says, “so he is, is he? Good to know. And, no. I didn’t see anyone coming or going.”

Jon glares, even as the rush of relief makes him slouch bonelessly in his chair.

“I just came to let you know we’re taking a half day,” Tim says, with a bright winning smile.

“A half day?”

“Yeah. Going out for some _much_ needed R&R.”

“Oh. Hmm. You will have to sign out for the day if you’re planning on leaving early,” Jon says, perfectly okay with the fact that his employees have decided schedules are beneath them. Perfectly okay…

At least they asked.

Sort of.

Tim rolls his eyes. “No,” he says, slowly drawing the world out. “ _We’re_ going out,” he waves his hand around the office, an all encompassing gesture that includes Jon.

Jon blinks. “ _Oh!_ ” he says, surprised as a metaphorical lightbulb pops on over his head. “Oh, I-I see.”

It’s only that he has, charitably speaking, been a bit of the odd man out in this group. He knows they like him but they’ve never quite… _clicked_ in a social setting. “If you’re sure?”

“Of course we’re sure,” Martin says, popping up in the middle of Jon’s doorway, coat in hand.

“Yup. Count down drinks to the big day? Before you run off, sacrificing yourself to save the world!”

Jon’s reminded of advent calendars, filled with chocolate. He doesn’t like it.

“Tim!” Martin snaps, scandalized.

“It’s fine,” Jon assures him. “A bit of levity is welcome, to be honest.”

“If _you’re_ sure…” Martin says, with a sour look at Tim.

Jon isn’t sure, no, but he doesn’t want the others to worry. Worry leads to them trying to tag along and Jon doesn’t want to have _that_ argument again.

“I’ll, um… I’ll get my coat?” Jon says, deciding Elias can… well, the entirety of the Elias Situation can be put on hold for the day. It could be working out better but, in some ways, it’s hard to blame a Hunter for being what it is. It will be good to have a few hours mandatory shut off from the stress until it becomes a reality.


	3. Chapter 3

They meet at the airport, the day before the eclipse. Elias tracks him down, toeing the line between assassin chic and dignified business man. Painted black, head to toe, in a long fitted trench coat and painfully elegant shirt and trousers; an outfit that probably cost him as much as Jon’s car.

Jon, who decided to dress like a normal member of society in comfortable clothes with a color scheme, feels second class next to Elias. Poor and hobnobbing with the elite.

He frowns and Elias tenses, scanning the area like he thinks Jon’s trying to tip him off to a threat.

Jon shakes his head as he gets nearer. “It’s fine. You’re early.”

“I left when you did,” Elias says, with a perfectly benign expression.

“That is deeply unsettling.”

“High praise coming from a professional stalker.”

Jon isn’t sure how to refute that without backing himself into a corner so he hefts his carryon higher on his shoulder and gestures that they might as well get going.

“We will make it through security, yes?” Jon asks, only half serious as they get through check in and are given directions to airport security screening.

Elias gives Jon a look he can’t decipher. “Let’s each concentrate on our own roles.”

“Elias? You _don’t_ have any… paraphernalia on you,” Jon demands, looking warily at Elias’ bag.

Elias stops and turns to face him. “I understand that you’re at loose ends, waiting to be useful, and you’re going to have to wait awhile more,” Elias says, almost sounding sympathetic. “But allow me, and me alone, to fulfill my end of our agreement.”

Unhappy as he is about it, Jon can think of nothing better but to nod. Elias is a professional, who has likely done this dozens of time. What else can Jon do but trust in the expertise he himself had requested.

Which is why, when they get to the front of the line and he turns to give Elias one last wary glance, he doesn’t have a panic attack to find Elias gone. He gives a cursory glance through the throngs of people waiting in line, but Elias is nowhere to be seen.

Jon hefts his carry on onto the conveyor belt and takes off his shoes, passing through the metal detector without scrutiny and spending twenty minutes walking through a maze of terminals to find the waiting area of his flight. He gives up scanning the crowd and looking over his shoulder for Elias. While their relationship is, at best, turbulent, he can think of no reason Elias would ghost him now.

He doesn’t see Elias again for the rest of the hour he mills around, waiting for their flight to board.

Elias is already sitting in the plane, waiting, when Jon’s admitted entrance. He barely glances up as Jon stores his bag and drops into his seat.

Jon takes a patient, fortifying breath and asks shortly, “Why?”

Elias tips his head to the side. “It’s cheaper than bribes.”

“Cheaper?” Jon asks dubiously, “Or is it more fun for you?”

Elias’ lips part in a delighted and disarming grin. Probably fake. He must have spent years learning how to manipulate others throughout his… unorthodox lifestyle.

Jon resolves to ignore him throughout the journey. There’s in-flight movies, podcasts, and his own unfinished paperwork to distract him.

And there’s always people watching.

Or, people Watching.

Jon chooses the first person he sees, hoping that what he reads inside of them will reinforce his resolve to undertake this mission. That they will be a good person with loved ones and family that are worth Jon risking his life to save.

But, when he reaches out with Beholding, he encounters static, jumping waves of a fritzing television.

Jon frowns and attempts to brush away the blanket of snow and stabilize the image, but the knowledge inside the man wildly careens out of Jon’s grasp.

He can still catch snippets in-between the buzzing sensation of white noise attacking his efforts, but it’s a headache to peek through and not one Jon thinks is worth dealing with.

He tries again, with a new person one seat up. The margin of difference is negligible, but present. 

Another seat up and then another, the interference becoming less pronounced the further Jon’s sight gets away from…

Jon’s eyes slide suspiciously towards Elias. His eyes are closed and he’s reclined back in his seat with earbuds in. Still likely more observant than half the people on this plane and Jon isn’t convinced he’s not paying more attention than he’s letting on.

Jon moves his Sight to the back of the plane, as far away from his seat as possible.

It’s easier, but still with far more significant difficulty than he wants to deconstruct.

None of the passengers are particularly interesting and the smallness of their lives isn’t enough to make Beholding force through the interference on its own accord. Jon gives up with ill grace and resigns himself to spending the plane ride like everyone else; cramped and bored.

Elias pulls out a headphone and leans in close, “Easier than conversation?” he mocks, “or is it _more fun for you?_ ” Elias sounds amused, untroubled by Jon leaning on Beholding for a distraction.

Jon wants to growl and swear at him, but instead turns his head to spear Elias with an unimpressed look of scorn.

“I wonder,” Elias says, entertained and watching him with the tracking eyes of the Hunt that feels almost as oppressive as the Watcher’s, “if your frustration has more to do with your… blind spots than any action I’ve taken.”

Jon’s aware it’s petulant to scowl at being compared, fundamentally, as equal to every other human on the planet, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t bother him. It would be a lie, as well, to say it didn’t make him feel like _less_ than they are.

“How are you doing this?” Jon asks.

“Have you considered that I might simply be better at my job than you are?” Elias asks, obnoxious smile bleeding through into his words.

Jon rolls his eyes. “Your job is _not_ to hinder mine.”

“And I’ve no intention of doing so,” Elias assures. “Please, then, tell me how protecting myself is debilitating to you.”

“We’re on the same side,” Jon reminds him. “You don’t _need_ protection from me.”

“Willful ignorance isn’t a good look at the best of times, and certainly not on an Archivist.”

Funny, as Jon explicitly recalls informing Elias of his feelings concerning his approval rating. Instead of repeating himself, Jon shoots him a flat look.

“You’re shaping up to be quite the good Archivist, Jon.” Elias says, putting his headphones back on. “And I know better than to trust that.”

* * *

They arrive with thirteen hours to spare.

Elias finds them a motel for the night.

Jon finds them a better one.

In theory, at least. They both look like the same run down pay-by-the-hour rooms and Jon couldn’t say what made him prefer this one over the other. He’d like to think it’s a simple case of not wanting Elias to make the choice for him, having already dragged him from the comfort of his own bed to waste institute funds flying them to the coldest place on earth.

It does, however, feel a bit more like the same untrustworthy intuition that lead him to Elias in the first place, though.

Elias goes along with it, unbothered by Jon’s stubbornness.

Jon’s room is covered in symbols of legitimate religions that are almost certainly not drawn in good faith. Teenage rebels playing anarchist, wearing reverse pentagrams for shock value aesthetics.

Jon sighs. “Better than #capitalism,” he mumbles. Now _that_ would make him worry about what evil has occurred in this room.

He looks around, at the bed and antenna wire TV, consciously willing Beholding to keep a lid on any _interesting_ factoids it might have about the place.

Jon drops his overnight bag on the table and leaves the room with the vague idea of raiding a vending machine. He digs in his pockets for change, pulling out a crinkled dollar and a few dimes with lint.

…or perhaps knocking on Elias’ door. They can go down together for a sit down meal. It comes with the added benefit of coercing Elias to confess what he’s hiding.

Halfway to Elias’ room, almost having reached a decision, Jon turns his head and looks out into the street.

Dressed in a new winter jacket and engaged in conversation, is a man that catches the attention of all of Jon’s eyes.

Untrustworthy fucking intuition.

Floyd Matharu, Jon’s brain supplies. Served on the Dorian. 2011 to 2014. Present during the voyage that resulted in Salesa’s death.

He stares longingly at the poor man with a sudden deep ravenous pit in his stomach that was not there two minutes ago.

He takes a deep, miserable breath.

If he ever possessed instincts of his own, they have long since been renovated to serve Beholding.

It always comes back to feeding. To worship.

Jon watches Floyd enter the motel lobby and drops his head to his chest, shoulders drooping.

Because of course.

Now. Is. Not. The. Time.

Jon pulls himself away, shakes his head and knocks on Elias’ door.

Elias narrows his eyes, head tilting like he knows… something. That something is different. Maybe exactly what has changed.

Oh.

Jon forces a smile and asks, “Dinner?”

* * *

Hunters, with a sixth sense for tracking prey.

Prey, being avatars.

Avatars, being Jon.

* * *

Elias takes him to a restaurant where the waiters know him on sight, though they address him as ‘Mr. Wright.’

Jon picks at his food. It isn’t bad but it’s not what he really wants.

Jon can’t stop thinking about Floyd, about Salesa and the Dorian. _Seeing_ him, all through the meal, with eyes he was not born with. Floyd is on leave for forty eight hours as he waits for the ship to set sail again.

Floyd.

Floyd Matharu.

A man he’s never seen before today, never even knew existed.

A man he’s never talk to.

Floyd Matharu.

From the Dorian.

Jon closes his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut.

He can feel Elias watching him with the simple human instinct of knowing when he’s being judged and found wanting.

Jon sighs and looks back up, staring fully at Elias, whose enjoying a rare cooked stake like _feeding_ is a problem for lesser avatars.

Elias is watching him like a hunting tiger, even as Jon watches Floyd.

“Are you nervous, Jon?” Elias asks, setting his fork down.

Jon figures it’s better to overestimate Elias’ knowledge than to assume he hasn’t figured it out, but even should that be the case, he doesn’t want to admit to it. To acknowledge the terrible dependence he has on traumas or that the small ways he has enjoyed the gifts Beholding gave him has led to him becoming an avatar with true power and not a librarian with small tricks up his sleeve.

He _never_ wants to admit that.

Jon turns the question back on him. “You aren’t?”

Elias tilts his head, eyes sharp as any Watcher. “Is there any reason I should be, when I’ve you watching my back?” he asks, without even the pretense of sincerity.

Jon takes a disgruntled bite of food that tastes like nutritionless ash in his mouth and only serves to make him more ravenous for something that _will_ fill him up.

“You’re much too old to be sulking like this,” Elias scolds. “Answer my question.”

Of course Jon’s nervous. He isn’t a killer, he’s not a saboteur, and the plan is so simplistic it seems doomed to failure.

He feels too much to put it into words and so he nods, adding a simple, “Yes.”

“Mmm. And it’s making you hungry,” Elias states, tone brooking no argument.

Even under the best of circumstances, this would be a nightmare, but to have Beholding’s hunger bearing down on him to take and take and take, right smack dab next to a trigger happy Hunter, is a whole new level of self destruction.

The absolute unfair nonsense of the situation. A dozen justifications spring to mind as to why contacting Floyd is an acceptable deter.

Jon looks up to meet Elias’ eyes. He wonders if _he_ looks like that, when he comes across someone with a story. If he puts people on edge and makes them think he plans to hurt them, or worse.

It’s a sobering thought.

Elias stares at him with a clear look of disdain and Jon shakes his head, looking away.

As though they aren’t traveling all this way so that Elias can, can _feed_ as well.

Hypocrite.

“I thought you brought statements,” Elias says.

“I did.”

But he also hadn’t been expecting run into Mikael Salesa’s last bloody crew member, either. The odds were more than a little against it.

“You were hoping this would happen,” Elias accuses.

“Of course I wasn’t,” Jon defends, though not with a clear conscience.

On some level, Jon _must_ have suspected.

“You chose this motel. You chose it over our established route.”

Jon looks away, sure that if he gave his explanation it would only cement his guilt in Elias’ eyes.

“Then by all means, Archivist,” Elias scowls, sweeping his arm in a welcoming gesture, “don’t starve on my account.”

Jon looks sharply at Elias.

It is almost as exhausting being accused of being a villain as it is fighting not to be one. Playing sweetly with the asshole who shot him for daring to speak out of turn and _now,_ Elias’ snide remarks make Jon clench his teeth, biting back ten kinds of curses.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, his fingers clenching around a newly materialized tape recorder inside. He shakes his head and decides, not for the first time, to simply remove himself from temptation and turn away from Elias.

“Ah, well. Perhaps for breakfast, then?”

_Fucking hell._

Jon stands up, spitting anger, “I’m not doing _anything_ on your account, you self-righteous bastard. And, in case you forgot, _I’m_ not the only monster on this trip!”

Elias blinks, taken aback by Jon’s venom. Like he expected Jon to just take it and take it and take it.

“What do you think _you’re_ doing? Performing the _greater good?_ ” Jon continues. “That your actions aren’t feeding some indefensible horror, too?”

“Perhaps they are, but I’m not the one attacking innocents, am I?”

Jon laughs at the ludicrous notion Elias gives a damn about differentiating between innocent and guilty. That it isn’t all one big dodgy justification for him to hurt people and call it _justice_. To look down on Jon because Jon is the one struggling with the weight pulling him down.

“Look me in the eyes, Elias, and tell me how much you _care_. That what you’re doing isn’t looking for an excuse. Far as I can see, I’m the one doing the right thing, and you’re the one who’s been making it hard from day one.”

Elias’ eyes flash hotly. For a split second they look yellow, like a wolf. Amber, like a demon.

Jon has a scar, _a scar_ , from the last time Elias didn’t like what he had to say and it only fuels his anger. “Only _one_ of us is proud of the damage they leave behind.”

Elias chuckles, deep in the back of his throat, effortlessly sinister. “Archivists…” he says, managing to disparage an entire lineage with his candace. “It isn’t superiority to hate yourself for being evil, while willingly walking that path.”

Jon narrows his eyes.

It is frightening to stand in front of a renowned assassin and have an instinct inside you, deeply entrenched beneath layers of fear and uncertainty, that you could fight him and emerge victorious.

Like a small alley cat going for a lion’s jugular. Nothing but prayer holding the fantasy of triumph in place.

God.

Jon can’t be here. He can’t do this. Later, after they’ve defeated the Dark, he can indulge suicide missions.

“Go to hell,” Jon says and his voice echoes. He doesn’t think it’s a trick of acoustics.

Elias catches Jon’s arm in a painful grip when he tries to storm past him.

Jon bares his teeth, trying to yank free and in response Elias pulls him in closer. He grabs Jon’s face, hand spread out underneath his chin, fingers digging into the hinges of his jaw.

Jon glares into Elias’ eyes. He could see into the soul of him, he could dig out all the pieces that make Elias who he is and tear them out with a violence that would make him fall to his knees weeping.

_Elias_ is not better than him.

Take away his fancy weapons, trim his nails and he’s just as defenseless as anyone else.

Elias sighs. “You really are a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

It’s a harder slap in the face than Jon is used to.

“ _Thoughts_ don’t make someone a bad person,” Jon says, like a mantra. “And starving is second nature to me.”

Elias’ fingers tighten and Jon can feel nails pressing into his skin, like they want to slide down and slice open his throat.

He can feel Beholding, thrumming through him and demanding justice for Elias’ insults.

And then Elias lets go. His hands jerk away from Jon like real effort has been put into releasing him.

“…I know.”

Jon narrows his eyes, touching his neck where the dig of Elias’ nails have left indentations in his skin. “Or are _you_ hungry, Elias?” Jon asks, challenging.

Elias stares back quietly, still as any predator on high alert.

It’s a stand off Jon doesn’t plan on losing, and doesn’t so much as blink until, finally, Elias exhales and rolls his shoulders like he’s releasing tension.

He doesn’t answer Jon’s question, instead saying, “I’ve been around a long time, Archivist. I’ve seen things you’d never believe possible.”

Yes, he probably has. It does little to pacify Jon, though.

“Come on, then. Let me tell you some.”

“You aren’t afraid of getting trapped in my ‘Nightmare Museum’?”

“Not even a little.”

* * *

Elias’ story feel… wrong. There’s something off about it. He’s not a lying, not exactly, but there’s a… flavor to it. A staleness that leaves him unfilled.

Elias is like a snack, an appetizer to tide him over before the main course arrives.

Something is missing in his narrative that Jon can sense but cannot Know. He wants to ask _why_. He’s taken statements from avatar’s before and they never felt like this.

* * *

It’s the night before, six hours until they head off to the compound, and the last thing Jon can do is sleep.

He knows he can’t always be around people who love and want the best for him, but damn if he doesn’t want to get on the phone right now and hear his colleagues voices cheering him on with support.

He feels better in the strange physical-not-physical way the Beholding has when it takes over his senses and makes him artificially ill, but he’s still having to trick himself into ignoring the fresh, never before heard statement of Floyd Matharu.

Jon leaves his room to stand on the hotel balcony, breathing in the fresh air. He stares out in the direction of Rayner’s compound, wondering what unholy rites are taking place, the night before the eclipse. Jon rests his elbows on the railing and leans forwards.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Jon closes his eyes, sighing at Elias’ sudden intrusion.

“I’d rather a cigarette,” he admits. One last cigarette before walking willingly to his doom. He turns his head to look sideways at Elias. “Here to make sure I don’t hurt anyone?”

“Should I be?”

Jon shrugs.

No. Not really. But Jon is tired and doesn’t want to fight.

Elias walks to stand next to him, but leans his back against the railing, facing inwards. “Can you feel it?”

“Feel what? The darkness?”

“Yes.”

“No. No, it’s just… it’s nothing. It’s a blank void. The darkness, it’s antithetical to me, I suppose.”

Elias look thoughtfully at Jon. “It believes itself to be.”

“No,” Jon says with a frustrated snicker. “It is.” He turns to the side, to look at Elias. “You’re not scared?”

Elias shakes his head.

“This isn’t like shooting one person,” Jon says, accusing but sincere. Elias rolls his eyes. “Or kidnapping one cultist. There are dozens, probably, inside.”

“Dozens without experience _or_ forewarning.”

“It’s experience, then? And not overconfidence?” Jon asks, _wanting_ Elias to admit he’s in over his head, running headlong into danger with reckless abandon.

He’s not. Jon knows he’s not. Elias has already been here, conducting reconnaissance. He’s a professional.

“And what is your insecurity doing for you?” Elias asks. “You are worrying more than enough for the both of us.”

“Fine. Afraid _I’ll_ screw up, then, and you’ll have to protect me?”

“My little wolf in sheep’s clothing? No.”

There it is again, Elias’ belief that Jon is stronger than he is. Able to hold his own and coming to Elias only for backup.

But being a stronger Archivist than Gertrude doesn’t cancel out her superior wits or comprehensive knowledge.

“Why are you here, Elias?” Jon asks, instead of admitting the truth.

“Would you believe that I’m here to apologize? Properly, that is.”

“Oh, _you’re_ playing nice, now?” Jon asks, bitterly throwing Elias’ words back at him.

“Yes,” Elias says. “You have been… doing your best, Jon. I do see that.”

Jon looks sharply at him. “What is it about me that makes you so certain I’m trying to gain your approval?”

Elias looks down, massaging fingers into his forehead. “This was intended as an apology. As I said.”

“Try ‘I’m sorry,’ next time, thank you.”

“I’m sorry, Jon.” Elias acquiesces, sounding sincere if not awkward.

And, well, good. He _should_ be sorry. Jon wants to press the point, ask which part Elias is sorry for. The gunshot? The apartment? Or merely ‘everything in general.’

But it’s exhausting, arguing with Elias. “Apology accepted.”

Elias smiles, nodding his appreciation. “You ought to think of yourself from the perspective of others,” Elias says. “Of course you’re afraid. It’s more than reasonable to be so. You are young and Rayner is… Well. It was good of you to seek outside help. Not because the Dark is ‘antithetical’ to you but because Rayner’s successes come from wisdom, not brute strength.”

“What’s that mean?”

“He is no more the sum of his powers than you are,” Elias says and Jon wants to laugh at the idea he has absolutely anything else going for him outside of Beholding. “The Dark can obscure your Vision, but you still know what’s inside it. Jonathan Sims can see where the Beholding cannot. The People’s Church has just as much to fear from you as you do from them.

“As for the rest…” Elias considers and then leans in closer, eyes glittering. “Beholding is stronger than you think. _You_ are a horrifying eldritch monster. You feed on humanities deepest traumas and trap your victims in their nightmares.” Jon frowns, unhappy with the reminder. “You think you can’t trap a few of _them_ inside?”

It could be keen observation on Elias’ part, concern that Jon’s mood will influence their chance of success. But Jon thinks Elias’ words, his expression, suggest _understanding_. Personal and intimate.

He wonders if Elias was ever just as confused by the juxtaposition of what his patron expected of him and what he wanted for himself; if he ever flailed to find a middle ground.

If he did, or if he does.

Jon could know, he can feel the answer on the tip of his tongue, distracting like Floyd is distracting.

He worries at the hunger. If sated will it make him stronger? If not, will there be consequences for defying Beholding?

“I might die tomorrow,” Jon says, feeling the weight of it when he speaks it out loud.

Elias’ eyes slide to his, a sly smile licking his lips.

“What?” Jon asks.

“Your predecessor used to say that.”

“Gertrude?”

“Right before asking questions I was less inclined to answer.”

“Oh. That’s not what I—” but… why not? Unlike Gertrude, Jon doesn’t have experience and, quite frankly, he’s not brimming with confidence. He squares his shoulders and turns to fully face Elias. “Yes. Actually, I do have questions.”

Elias spreads his hands out, like he’s an open book.

“Why can’t I see you?

“I’m right here, Archivist.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do.”

Jon glares, waiting until Elias caves. And he does, with a scoffing, “waste of a question.”

From his coat Elias pulls out a pamphlet. Jon eyes it warily before cautiously taking it from him and inspecting it.

‘From the library of…’ God, Jon hates Leitner. Hates him more than the Distortion and Prentis combined.

The thin book reads _A Disappearance_ and well, well, well isn’t that interesting.

Elias snatches it back, not trusting that Jon won’t tear it right down the middle and have done with it.

Jon doesn’t know what to say to that, except the question that’s been on his mind from day one. “Who are you, Elias Bouchard?” he asks, softly.

“Take this,” Elias says, pulling a gun from his coat and handing it out to Jon, handle first.

Jon looks Elias over, his long coat with guns and knives and books and who knows what else stashed inside it.

He hesitates. “I don’t… I don’t know how to use that.”

Elias hums and holds it out with more insistence. “Every single person in there wants you – specifically you, Jon – dead. I suggest you figure it out.”

The weight of the gun in his hand feels all too real.

God, Jon doesn’t want to get his hands dirty. Doesn’t want to be responsible for taking _anyone’s_ life, not even his enemies. Not even the people who won’t hesitate to take him out.

Jon looks down at the weapon. He turns it in his hand, waving it out to look at all sides.

Elias grabs his wrist and stares at him incredulously.

Right.

Right.

Guns aren’t toys.

“Sorry,” Jon says, frowning at it. So small for the damage it can inflict.

“Perhaps a brief tutorial, then.” Elias concedes. “Don’t look so worried, Jon. You’re going to save the world, are you not?”

“Yeah,” Jon agrees, watching as Elias’ hands move expertly over the gun.

“And if you cannot have confidence in yourself, have it in me.”

Jon looks back to Elias. He supposes that might be easier, regardless. Despite Elias’ blasé attitude, this a responsibility they both have. A shared burden.

He nods and listens with interest as Elias goes about attempting to explain proper gun handling.


	4. Chapter 4

They go by foot, walking into Maxwell Rayner’s domain. The aesthetics of the Forever Blind light their way into the site; darkness bleeding out and around the main building, leaching forward and stretching out to touch the real, tangible world.

A change has swept over Elias, like a switch being flicked on. The innate predatory instinct of the Hunt; eager to track its prey, to stalk it unawares and pounce. Jon’s never witnessed an actual moment where an avatar embodies its patron quite so well as this. He finds it fascinating.

While Jon feels like he’s going to be sick, Elias seems reinvigorated. His eyes are bright and alert; sharp and scanning. Giddy, almost. Excited to throw himself into the thick of things.

“Adrenaline junkie,” Jon grouses.

“Pardon?”

Jon shrugs. “Just… the Hunt, I suppose.”

“Well, isn’t that a sweeping generalization.”

“Yes, it is.” Jon says, stubbornly standing by his observation. When Elias scoffs and rolls his eyes Jon thinks best to change the subject before they become entrenched in a bickering tug-of-war. “Do you think they can see in there?” He asks, pointing the building, supernaturally lit in black.

“It’s for the best to assume they have the advantage, regardless of if it’s true.”

“Right. That makes sense.” Jon says, steps dragging a beat behind Elias. “…is it, though? True?”

Elias sighs. “It will be if you aren’t careful. Be quiet and pay attention.”

Elias opens the door to Rayner’s compound and gestures for Jon to go inside first.

Bravery, Jon reminds himself as he steps through, is being afraid of something and doing it anyways.

It isn’t the impenetrable, preternatural darkness Jon was expecting, but it’s certainly thorny terrain.

Elias closes the door softly behind them and doesn’t move, calculating the next step forward. “Do you sense anything?” Elias asks.

“No,” Jon says, struggling to swallow down the tight knot of fear stuck in his throat. “Do you?”

Elias hums a negative and steps forward with a confidence Jon longs for. “Stay close,” Elias says, “and let me know the moment you do.”

* * *

Jon’s shoulder slams painfully into the wall, his body thrown backwards without warning. He’s dizzy and winded, the ache in his chest the only clue that he was hit, shoved, and common sense tells him it could only have been Elias.

“What?” Jon asks, confused, making out the outline of Elias’ dark shape in the room, standing across from Jon but not facing him.

Jon doesn’t move from where he was flung. Whatever other thoughts were to be had on their shaky alliance, Jon doesn’t think Elias would attack him for no reason, not when they’re only minutes into their mission.

A growl and a second outline, materializing from the darkness.

Jon’s eyes widen, trying to take in more details, and at length the shape gains a more defined silhouette. An uneven cribbed shape with long barbs flailing wildly with no purpose Jon can see.

He doesn’t know what it is, but it conjures images of Lovecraftian monsters in his mind; tentacles and madness.

His first thought is to cry out. For who and for what reason, he couldn’t say. There is only himself and Elias, and Elias already knows.

It skitters forward, appendages whirling, Elias the only thing standing between Jon and it.

And then it lunges. Elias ducks its limbs before grabbing hold and yanking it into the middle of the room.

Their shadows intertwine.

Jon lifts his gun. His hand is steady, but he doesn’t know where to point. He’ll never be able to separate Elias’ dark form from the monsters equally black outline. Even if he could, the odds of Jon shooting true are slim.

He hesitates. They’re moving quickly, too fast for Jon to even be sure he’s tracking the right hunter.

If Elias dies, the monster’s next move will be to attack Jon and if they both die, there will be nothing to stop the ritual. It will succeed. The world will be plunged into darkness with millions of these creatures overrunning the earth.

But if Jon leaves and saves himself… he will be abandoning an ally when they need him most.

Jon moans in uncertainty, searching his brain for any knowledge, any slight understanding of the thing, that could be relevant to the situation.

He greatly wishes he’d asked for a run down on what… attributes Elias has gained in service to the Hunt. It’s all well and good that he’s been granted a long life and possesses the ability to kill otherwise impervious avatars, but now would be a great time to know if he has eagle eyes.

Jon has to choose and so he lowers the gun and brings up the flashlight. Shining it might distract Elias, but at least it will enhance the dark battlefield.

He clicks it on. The beam is not impressive, but it does what it’s meant to, highlighting the horror.

The creature is worse in life than in his imagination. Its thick, tubular body glistens like it is slicked in oil and its many cephalopod limbs have rows and rows of suckers spread along their lengths. One of which is wrapped around Elias’ throat, tight and with enough muscle to have him strangled, kicking into the air, feet dangling inches from the ground.

Neither man or monster flinches in the sudden illumination, but Elias reacts to the ability to see instantaneously.

He plants his feet on what can charitably be called the creature’s chest and kicks it back, the momentum of the blow shoving Elias away.

Jon sees the brief glint of Elias’ knife in the flashlight beam before the appendage is cut in two and Elias is free. He falls to the ground, rolls back to his feet and swings his arm forward, in an arch.

The creature stumbles back with a pathetic croaking gurgle.

Jon clicks the light off, but not before seeing a mass of disemboweled black sludge seeping from the things body.

They stand there, quietly observing the darkness, and don’t speak until the creature falls silent.

Quietly, mindful of the danger they’re still in, Jon says, “That– that was… Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, good. Good. …well done.” Jon says, breathless with relief.

Elias chuckles, “Full marks?”

“Well, you _did_ need help.”

Elias mutters something that, even in the quietude of the building, Jon can’t make out.

“Come again?” Jon asks.

“Stay close to the wall,” Elias instructs, which is almost certainly not what he had said, but is good advice regardless.

“Okay.”

“Only turn on your light if you absolutely need it.”

“As in, right now?”

“As in, when your life depends on it.”

“ _As in, right now?_ ”

“ _Jon_.” Elias says, hard and uncompromising.

“…okay,” Jon says, taking a moment to steel himself before stepping forward, like every first-person-to-die in a horror movie, to walk in the direction of the next monster. “Once more unto the breach.”

Blindly, he follows an internal radar he doesn’t fully understand.

Elias’ pep talk had almost fooled him into thinking he’ll get out of this alive. But it’s… this is _worth_ dying for. He only needs to survive long enough to find the Dark Star.

Jon concentrates on his breathing. Deep breath, hold, slow exhale.

He can do this.

There is only darkness.

Elias follows behind him with a mastery of stealth to make Eurydice jealous and, much like Orpheus, Jon glances behind to be sure he hasn’t been abandoned.

Eyes wide in the darkness Jon attempts again to look into the compound with a twofold, sixth sense sight. They don’t get more than a couple hallways down before the sound of hurried footsteps comes rushing forward. He can hear sharp mumbling and Jon has no doubt they’re investigating the sounds of Elias’ fight.

Shit.

They plaster themselves against the wall, holding their breaths.

Jon finds it unlikely that he’s the only person blind in here. Not every single person in this compound will be able to navigate with ease. Afterall, it can’t possibly be a warehouse full only of Avatars. There will be others, those who don’t truly understand the significance of tonight. Who were drawn in on the promise of friendship and camaraderie. Who likely knew this was more cult than church, but wanted a place to fit in.

There will be Tim’s and Sasha’s and Martin’s who didn’t know better until after they signed up; who woke up one day and realized the fine print was written in invisible ink and dissent could mean their ruination or death.

Jon feels a deep pang of guilt.

It should not be so easy to hold the gun. It should not be so easy to carry a thing designed only to kill.

Like Elias, in a way… Something to be aimed and set off.

He takes a slow, careful breath and holds it for the count of three.

The investigators come around the corner. Two of them.

Jon’s instincts immediately rush to the fore. The hunger Beholding has infused in him latches on to the one closest to him. A woman. Manuela Dominguez. Scientist. The Dark Sun. He can almost see its residue of power like an aura around her. The brightest star, muted and flickering in the dead of night. He can just almost know it, like a name on the tip of his tongue

Every part of Jon tries desperately to bridge the gap separating the Watcher and the Forever Blind. Struggling to grab it with both hands and shake its secrets free.

The answers he seeks are inside of her if he could just break through the darkness…

She says something to her companion. They haven’t spotted him yet, still scanning the inside of the room, not yet having investigated the perimeter.

Recklessly, Jon darts forward and grabs her.

It’s a near instantaneous siphoning. Pure reflex and blind, brute strength. Intuition follows him through as he shifts through her thoughts and feelings and the power she will undoubtedly strike back at him with.

For now, she uses her fists, balled up and landing a punch on his jaw.

But it’s too late. Too late for her and Rayner and the Extinguished Sun.

Jon _Knows._

He starts to smile when, with an audible _crack_ Manuela’s head jerks back at a sharp right angle, showing the profile of her face.

She’s pushed into him and Jon doesn’t know what to do with the dead weight of her body but lower it to the ground. Quickly. Quietly.

Jon losses sight of Elias momentarily but a second later he hears a similar rustle in the room and a second body being lowered to the ground

The air rushes out of Jon’s lungs as he realizes there are two bodies in the room, dead because of his impulsiveness.

It’s Jon’s fault. If he’d stayed quiet and carried on with their plan of stealthily searching the compound, not attacking it, they’d still be…

…his enemies.

His enemies, ready to break _his_ neck without a second thought.

Fuck

It’s a lot to take in and there’s not enough time to process.

Moreover, Jon knows what to do now, finally. He doesn’t give Elias a chance to speak, to chide or blame Jon. “I know what to do,” he says in a rush. “I know where to go.”

Elias’ breathless, invigorated voice says, “Lead the way, then.”

Jon nods, breath catching in his throat at the responsibility of being in charge.

In the darkness, through hallways full of monsters, cultists and unintentional traps, Jon can feel the foreign and impossible calling out to him. The unachievable significance of the Black Sun pulling Jon towards it, beckoning him to come and see, to seek and _know_.

* * *

It feels like they walk for hours, ears straining to hear what must be going on in the building but gleaning nothing.

Jon knows, because he _knows_ , that they’ve been moving in silence for eight minutes, but how large _is_ this compound? It did not look half this spacious from the outside.

Jon’s hand against the wall slides into empty space. A hallway. He takes a right turn and prepares himself for what he knows is on the other side of the wall.

Still, the wash of pure buzzing energy staggers him. A jolt of vertigo sweeps through him and he gasps, ripping his hand away and staring at it in surprise.

“There,” Jon gasps in astonished awe. “Elias, it’s… it’s in there.”

“Good, Jon.”

Jon gingerly places his hand back against the wall, braced for the force of power radiating from inside the room, and slides his palm along the wall until it hits the handle of the door.

He reaches excitedly for it, his senses singing out in delirious wonder, only to have Elias grab his arm and stop him.

Jon feels like a strung out junkie, betrayed by his dealer for how eagerly he wants his fix inside that room.

“Elias?”

Elias pulls him back, away from the door. “Behind me.”

“What? Are you going to _stab_ the Black Sun? That’s not how this works.”

“ _Archivist_ ,” Elias growls in frustration.

The door opens without either of them touching it and Jon stiffens, hand tightening around the gun, dreading to face the monster emerging from the other side.

There’s a sharp _clack_ of a cane hitting the cement floor as a body, a human body, steps into the hall.

Jon doesn’t need three tries to guess who it is.

Maxwell Rayner, ancient and powerful, confronting them during his patron’s height of power, on his own home ground.

“Damnit,” he hisses between his teeth as Rayner stands before them.

“Well, as I live and breathe,” Rayner says, “if it isn’t Jonah Magnus.”

Jon blinks blankly.

Jonah Magnus?

He frowns, shaking his head and opening his mouth to correct Rayner’s misunderstanding, but Elias’ hand tightens warningly around his arm.

Jon glances at his face, uncertainly, but Elias isn’t looking at him. He’s staring at Maxwell with forced hospitality, familiarity evident in his stance.

“Maxwell,” Elias greets in return.

Jonah.

“I always knew we’d cross paths again, old friend,” Rayner says, “but I expected something more… cordial.”

Magnus.

“Is that so?” Elias – _Jonah_ asks.

But Jon has… he’s seen Jonah – Jonah _existed –_ his portrait is on the institute website. It’s hanging up in the lobby.

Jon can’t _see_ in the Dark and Elias’ face is too shrouded in shadows to make a proper examination of it besides.

“Jonah…” Jon says softly. He stares blankly at Rayner, showing up like the finale boss battle before they can gather up the treasure and escape the dungeon. “Jonah Magnus,” Jon adds again, the words slipping from his mouth in astonishment.

Jon’s thoughts stutter in place as the knowledge sinks in. He allows Elias to maneuver him behind his body while his mind rewrites all their interactions with the new information of just what the alias _Elias Bouchard_ is hiding.

Maxwell turns to address him, asking Elias, “Who’s your friend?”

“Jonathan Sims. The Archivist.”

Rayner chuckles. A villainous sound that puts Elias’ cultivated demeanor of menace to shame. “Beholding again, Jonah?”

Elias tips his head to glance back at Jon. Jon can’t see his expression but the exaggerated self-deprecation dripping from his tone is a good indictor it’s not a smile of camaraderie. “Mmm,” he hums in agreement. “Its ilk will always hold a place in my heart, I suppose.”

Jon shakes his head at Elias. Incredulity, bewilderment, duplicity. There are so many questions he has, frozen at the forefront of his mind that not even the proximity of the Dark Sun can drown out.

But this play pretend bickering-friends act Elias and Rayner are engaged in won’t last forever.

Maxwell Rayner steps away from the door and Elias retreats cautiously, stepping back to give him room to advance.

Jon sees his chance and takes it. He closes his eyes and bolts forward, shoving past Elias, around Rayner, and into the room. He slams the door shut behind him and leans his back against it.

Jonah bloody Magnus.

The final puzzle piece, as the image is fully realized.

It’s almost enough to stop him from opening his eyes, knowing what he will find and woefully unprepared to confront it.

The door rattles behind him as something bangs into it, trying to break it open. Jon flattens himself against it, putting all his weight into keeping it shut and then… he opens his _eyes_.

* * *

The Dark Sun is amazing. The incomparable beauty of it takes his breath away. There isn’t an artist – dead, alive or undiscovered – that could create a greater masterpiece.

Jon steps closer to it, grateful that his power allows him to see into the wonder of it, even as that ability systematically tears it apart. Manuela was a genius. Even the parts that are aggravating in their nonsensical nature, that force Jon to comb through pure unending darkness and find the right seams to unravel, fall into perfect sync with the harmony of the universe. Jon sways, unmoored by the revolutionary grace of it.

An ear shattering _BANG!_ staggers him. Shockwaves from the unexpected detonation break his concentration and Beholding shatters in his grasp. The abrupt intensity leaves Jon stunned and paralyzed in confusion; bereft and stupefied.

Something wet splashes on him. His ears ring. He feels nauseous. Jon can barely see around the after image of the Dark Sun burned into his retinas.

But, he has to turn around, has to see what has happened and find out how much danger he is in.

He turns slowly and sees Maxwell Rayner. Jesus. He’s standing behind Jon, hands outstretched and reaching for him.

Jon watches in slow motion as Maxwell falls to the ground and doesn’t get up.

There’s a hole blown out between his eyes.

Jon blinks blankly as Elias comes into focus. There’s too much to process.

He should… tell Elias to stay back. It's dangerous.

Elias peeks around him and sees into an empty room. The Sun is gone. Vaporized by Jon’s sight.

Such a shame that something so beautiful had to be destroyed.

A gun is in Elias’ hand. He hasn’t lowered it.

If Elias shoots him he won’t heal. The last thing he’ll have seen was his enemies creation.

The last thing he’ll have done is save the world.

“Well,” Elias says, his voice sounding dull and muted. Far away. “Don’t you look a sight?”


	5. Chapter 5

There are screams of rage and despair in the compound as word spreads and cultists and monsters alike become aware of what has transpired.

Jon grabs Elias’ coat and pulls him away from the approaching conflict, it’s easiest to navigate out while avoiding further confrontations. Their mission is complete and Jon is so drained and worn thin that already he has to be half carried away.

Elias is thrumming with energy and excitement; he’d see this place become a bloodbath if given the choice, but he acquiesces easily enough to Jon’s wishes.

Elias shoves him into a hotwired car and Jon slumps down in his seat, melting into the cushions with a sigh. Despite expending no physical strain Jon’s very bones feel tired and sore. The days of stress catching up to him, perhaps.

Infuriatingly, Beholding is not in agreement, spiraling insights and factoids at him, excited and hungry for _more_. He tries to narrow down his focus and block out the unnecessary but his thoughts are whirling at a pace too frenetic to keep up. Jon doesn’t know how to tell the Eye that the power its given him is still trapped inside a human body that needs rest and recuperation. There’s simply not enough strength in his muscles or focus in his head to feed its greedy maws more and more and more.

Jon leans his head in his hand, elbow propped up on the passenger side door. “Bloody Beholding.”

“Pardon?”

Jon looks sharply at Elias. “Don’t you know, _Jonah_?”

“Oh, I’ve a good half dozen names by now,” Elias says, rolling his eyes. “ _You_ can call me Elias.”

Jon grumbles. The Eye had tried to tell him, in its way. Tried to warn him of the many complications Elias would bring.

Still, who the hell would guess this?

Elias’ fingers drum an irritating, energetic pattern on the steering wheel, the very opposite of Jon’s lethargy.

“Jonah Magnus,” Jon muses, words echoing strangely, far away and distant. A sluggish thought occurs to him and he stiffens. “Does that mean… Do I– I work for you?”

Elias blinks, a blank expression crossing his features as though not knowing what to do with that question. “No,” Elias says at length. “You do not.” Then, with consideration and a cocky grin. “Would you like to?”

After tonight, Jon could not long more for the safety and comfort of his office job.

“I want to know what this means,” Jon says, a growl in his voice that he hadn’t meant to add in.

If Elias notices, he doesn’t react. “Are you afraid you’ll forget to ask in the morning?”

With some effort Jon organizes his thought enough to realize the likelihood of forgetting the answers more so than the question itself.

“Relax, Jon. Questions you don’t know the answers to aren’t necessarily secrets.”

“Then… why didn’t you just tell me?” Jon scowls, hating the idea that he’s the last to know. Always the new and naïve avatar.

“Perhaps if it were relevant,” Elias says, “but it was not and you, Archivist, are not entitled to my life’s story merely because you are used to asking questions and being indulged.”

Jon hates that Elias, once _again_ , is playing the ‘avatars are monsters’ card against him. The frustration must show on his face because Elias chuckles. “You know now and are still unhappy?”

Jon shrugs.

Elias hums thoughtfully, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “Perhaps I could make it up to you?”

The offer doesn’t stop Jon from sulking and, instead of replying, he looks out the window. The sight of the compound fading into the distance, as are the creatures inside, who just had their hopes and dreams crushed.

* * *

Sometime later, Elias shakes him awake.

“Still with me, then?” Elias asks.

Jon blows out a deep breath, not sure he has an answer to that one. He glances around to take in his surroundings. Still in the car, parked in front of their motel.

Oh.

Good.

“I see,” Elias chuckles. “Do you need help?”

Jon doesn’t, no, but the question’s apparently rhetorical as Elias is already manhandling him out of the car.

Jon thinks momentarily that perhaps not, perhaps sleeping in the boot would be a more sanitary option, but ultimately allows himself to be dragged out into the bitter cold air.

“Elias, I’m fine,” Jon snaps, exasperated.

To be fair, he knows he must look a sight. The after appearance of their mission; sweat dried hair, pale flushed skin, dazed eyes.

Jon still sees spots, black arcing stars of darkness, from staring into the Dark Sun. He realizes just how much of himself he expended destroying it. The power Beholding is capable of channeling through him and the even greater strength he could possess with resolved training and effort.

But his mind is perfectly fine, thank you, and he doesn’t appreciate the evaluating look Elias is sweeping over him.

Jon sighs. “I’m fine,” he repeats with appeasing sincerity.

His words are put to the test as they head into the lobby and Jon’s senses pick up on high alert, honing in on a statement before Jon even notices Floyd Matharu at the reception desk, duffle bag heft over his shoulder, presumably checking out.

Of all things, they have to pass by Floyd Matharu…

Jon has done so much today, worked so hard and been so scared. He saved Floyd’s life, saved _everyone’s_ life and now… he’s hungry. Starving.

He’s earned it.

 _Deserves_ it.

Jon only notices he’s begun walking towards Floyd, and away from his humanity, when Elias wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him roughly into a half embrace. He leads Jon into the lobby, up the stairs and away from temptation.

Jon opens the door to his room and begins to thank Elias for– for everything really, when Elias steps inside with him, shuts the door and pulls Jon back before pushing him against the wall.

Elias grabs a fistful of Jon’s shirt and yanks him forward, smashing their mouths together before Jon has a chance to ask what in the world is going on.

Jon’s tired and overwhelmed, even the parts of him that are Beholding, curious to see where this is leading, would rather rest.

Elias shoves his knee between Jon’s thighs and stands between them, grabbing Jon’s hair and pulling his head back for access to his throat.

Jon pushes back with his hands against Elias’ chest. It’s too much, just now. He can’t think like this.

Elias growls and bites him.

Rabid beast, indeed.

“This is,” Jon says, voice strained by the arc of his neck, “wildly inappropriate.”

Elias hums in agreement, moving Jon’s head to the side and licking up his neck to whisper in his ear, “You owe me a favor, do you not?”

Jon’s eyes widen in surprise, finding _that_ more shocking than the situation at hand. “You can’t be serious.”

“And if I am?”

Jon spent days having intermittent panic attacks thinking about what clever, dangerous, not-to-be-underestimated Elias might ask for, in return for his help. Finding out it’s _sex_ , of all things, is somehow both a disappointment and a relief.

Hunters are painfully simplistic creatures.

“I – alright. If that’s what you want?” Jon says, unable to remember ever being in the mood for spontaneous sex.

“Such enthusiasm,” Elias says, dryly.

Confusion, mostly. It seems a waste of a favor when surely Elias could get anyone else at a much cheaper price.

Elias manhandles Jon out of his coat, grabbing his shirt and tugging it up until he is able to get at skin, hands raking up Jon’s stomach and chest.

Jon feels thoroughly overwhelmed by the barrage of… well, the general barrage that is Elias, he supposes. More than a little dismayed at the adrenaline Elias has wracked up from the battle. Jon attempts to make an effort at reciprocation but he’s stumped where to move his body when Elias won’t stay still. Their kisses are sloppy and easily broken, hands losing purchase each time he tries to place them.

Jon reaches to grab onto Elias’ coat with the vague idea of pulling it off him, and gets stabbed by something inside for his trouble.

He yanks his hand away, cursing.

He never thought he’d find himself in a position to _sulk_ during sex, yet here he is.

“Problem?” Elias asks.

“Why are you an armory?”

Elias steps back to tear off his coat and Jon hears it _clunk_ as it hits the ground.

Ridiculous.

He’s wearing a harness, complete with gun and knife.

Jon gives him a dry, long suffering look, catching Elias’ eyes again after he discards the weapons recklessly on the ground.

Elias’ pupils are blown wide but there are flecks of amber in the thin irises.

He reaches up to touch Elias’ face, soft and curious. He rests his fingers beneath his eyes, wondering if he knows. If, after two centuries, Elias has ever seen himself when the Hunt shows itself.

Elias stares back at him, an indulgent look on his face like he knows Jon is seeing something most can’t and is letting him drink it in.

Predators eyes, betraying the threat. Jon suddenly understands Elias’ wary fear of Jon’s powers. They are each villains, at their core, whose desires, however much they dislike or deny it, is to take and rend and lose themselves in the perfect moment of their victim’s terror. To brand humanity as prey.

The very last thing Jon should do is tighten his hold and pull Elias in, but he wants to taste the Hunt in his mouth.

It’s ashes. Dust motes and stale air.

With the Black Sun still rattling in his brain, Jon had forgotten Elias has walled himself off from the Watcher’s gaze.

Distantly, Jon can hear metal being worked open and the sound of a zip being pulled down.

Elias pulls Jon’s hand away from his face and relocates it down his trousers. Jon’s face heats in a blush, but he at least has found a place to put his hands.

Jon curls his fingers around Elias’ shaft and Elias stills at the touch, slumping forward with a moan. Jon rests his free hand on the nape of Elias’ neck, combing his fingers through his hair, nails scratching lightly on delicate skin at the nape of Elias’ neck as he begins to work his cock.

Jon tips his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, breathing in the stillness of it. Soft. Easy. Even the feel of Elias’ lips moving on his throat, sucking on his skin, teeth nibbling –

Jon swats Elias away from his neck. He is _not_ going back to the Institute with a _hickey._ Certainly not one that could only have come from Elias.

Good lord, what the others would say…

“Bossy,” Elias sulks.

“Shush,” Jon says, stroking Elias carefully. Thoughtfully. Trying to work calm into him.

Elias, of course, does not obey. “I won’t break,” he criticizes, voice whispering in Jon’s ear.

“Yes, well,” Jon says, toeing the line between embarrassed and offended. “I’m not wholly… experienced in this area.”

“I’m not surprised,” Elias drawls dryly.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Elias spears him with a _look_ before slinging his finger through Jon’s belt loop and pulling him forward.

Jon takes two willing steps forward until he realizes the destination.

He isn’t so far gone, he will _never_ be so far gone, that he’s about to use that bed. He plants his feet on the ground and refuses to be budged.

God, no. Just… no.

Elias does a double take, as though expecting to see trouble snuck up behind him. He rolls his eyes when it’s just a cruddy bed with a dubious past that Jon is _not_ laying naked on. Unless Elias plans to proceed with clothes firmly attached, separating skin from blankets, Jon’s going to have to insist on a second option.

Elias provides one, shoving him at the rickety table, sat in the left of the room.

Jon winces when his stomach hits the hard edge of wood, gasping for breath when the air is knocked out of him.

Elias follows him, leaning over Jon and plastering his chest against Jon’s back, hands wrapping around his hips to get at his belt.

“Jesus, Elias.” Jon says, shifting his legs so Elias can remove his trousers. “Just because you’re a Hunter, doesn’t mean everything has to hurt.”

Jon feels Elias’ amusement so acutely he thinks Beholding must be beaming it into his brain.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to snap that the next time they do this, he gets a safe word but Jon baulks before the words gain traction on his tongue. ‘Next time’ implies a relationship and that’s the last thing he wants this to turn into.

“You, too, are every stereotype I can think of, Jon.” Elias says, fondly.

Jon curses when something cold and slick presses inside him, stretching him with slow slides, too sudden for his comfort.

A _warning_ would have been nice, but then, look who the hell he is with.

Jon tries for a half second to relax into it before it occurs to him that Elias isn’t some bloody wizard, able to materialize items out of thin air. He would have had to …

Jon’s eyes fly wide open. “What, you just – you just have that on you? At all times? What the hell else are you _prepared_ for?”

“Less prepared and more… improvised.”

Jon hums an iffy noise, not sure he approves of the proud lilt in Elias’ voice. He takes a deep breath and lets it slide, stretching his body out on the table. He crosses his arms and rests his head between them, _relaxing_ as he’s stretched open in a grungy motel room.

What other unexpected things can Jon look forward to?

“There’s no need to sulk, Jon.”

“I’m not.”

“And yet…”

Jon blows out a breath, confessing, “I can’t see.”

“Pardon?”

“You. I can’t _see_ you.”

Some people enjoy surprises, finding the unexcepted titillating, but Beholding’s never been one for blindfolds.

Elias hesitates. “…So?”

Jon shrugs and shakes his head.

Silence hangs heavily between them before Elias pulls his hands away and Jon can hear him searching. “If it’s causing you duress,” Elias says, voice heavy with disapproval.

Seconds tick by, but as Jon begins to turn around and ask what’s taking so long, a euphoric wave of _knowing_ washes over him. The blind spot that was Elias Bouchard opening up to him.

Jon doesn’t set his gaze into tearing apart his secrets. Surface facts always linger around Jon, small and useless things that people only care about on the principle of performative morality. He doesn’t scrutinize Elias, no, because it’s enough to know he _could_. The freedom to know he isn’t collared or chained.

Elias pushes back against it, as steady and powerful as the Darkness. Of course a former Watcher would know how to block off Beholdings basic avenues.

Jon can feel a wall hastily built between them. It wavers momentarily in strength, lessening before reconstructing. Like Elias isn’t sure what to do with Beholding’s presence. Isn’t sure if he trusts it or not.

Jon doesn’t know what to do with the knowledge that Elias doesn’t feel _safe_ around him.

 _Of course_ Elias doesn’t feel safe around him. Jon stared at the most powerful object in creation, a sun that two, maybe three people in the world could look upon without dying, and destroyed it in seconds.

God, what if Elias hasn’t been overestimating him?

A conundrum for another day. It feels too good to have all his senses back where they should be. He’d rather enjoy it.

Jon rolls around onto his back, looking up at Elias.

Elias doesn’t move for a long, drawn out moment and Jon wonders, with a desperation that is pure Archivist, what Elias sees when he looks at him. Jon wraps his legs around Elias’ waist. “It’s okay,” he says. “You’re okay.”

That gets a reaction, Elias’ lips twist in amusement. “Agreeable now, are you?” Elias teases.

Jon hums, pleased.

They find a strange, if unstable, balance between them, one that Jon’s sure could never survive outside of ‘heat of the moment’ chaos.

It’s well enough and whether or not it’s true, Jon feels a great deal more secure without the disadvantage of that damn Leitner.

Elias takes hold of Jon’s hips and thrusts into him like he thinks Jon’s made of titanium; unbreakable.

Jon grunts, grabbing the edge of the table in surprise. “Elias,” he growls, surprised that his voice can sound so dangerous. Like a warning or a threat.

“Archivist?” Elias asks innocently, though he sets a comfortable pace that is too tame for the Hunt and too monotonous for Beholding.

Jon tries not to think what it would be like without their patrons inside the room – inside themselves – spurring them on.

Would Elias still be rough without the Hunt’s animalistic need for dominance? Would Jon want more for himself than to catalogue the simple experience? To enjoy watching the pleasure on someone else’s face more than his own?

He’ll never know. For now it’s plenty excitement to figure out what makes Elias groan in satisfaction and lose his equilibrium. Elias falls forwards, his hands slamming on the table, bracketing Jon in place. His eyes are closed, a sheen of sweat on his face.

All for want of Jon.

It’s… nice.

Elias’ lips press against his throat and collar, hands rubbing his flesh, inside and out. Enjoyable enough that Jon can relish the sensation. Even the scratches that go too deep and break the surface of his skin have a pleasant after sting. The ones tended to with wet kisses and laving tongue. The ones where Jon doesn’t think too hard about the taste of blood in Elias’ mouth.

Jon grits his teeth as Elias’ thrusts become rougher, teasing the edge of pain, and lose rhythm. Elias pounds into him with a desperation that rocks the table and forces small pants and grunts out of Jon. It isn’t long before Elias tenses and his muscles go tight, moaning through his release.

Elias bows over Jon’s body, falling to his elbows and dropping his head against Jon’s collar.

Jon combs his fingers through Elias’ damp hair, quietly waiting for his panting breaths to even out and he collects himself.

Eventually, Elias looks up at him with heavy lidded eyes, lazy smile bright and pleased. He pulls himself up and stares down at Jon.

“Look at you, then.” Elias says, “So good to me.”

Jon blinks at him. Tired. Sore. Pedantic. “For.”

“For?”

“I’m good _for_ you.”

Elias chuckles. “Fair enough, Jon.” Elias says, his hands sliding down Jon’s stomach and abdomen before circling around his cock, pumping his shaft.

“That’s… really not necessary,” Jon says. There’s a certain vulnerability in the act that Jon’s wary of handing over to Elias.

Elias grabs his chin, turning his head to face him. “And be called a cad?” he counters.

Jon can’t imagine Elias is playing an angle; that he wants anything more out of this than the moment. Climax is Elias’ motivation. Release after a long, long day.

Elias’ eyes have lost their unnatural gleam, instead trading it in for sleepy contentment. It looks nice.

And, if it’s terrible or worse, Jon never really needs to see him again. Not if he doesn’t want to. He’s already paid up in full.

“Well,” Jon says, “if you’re worried about what I’ll tell all my other assassin friends…”

Elias pulls Jon up off the table and grabs the back of his head to yank him forward into a kiss. “I am,” he says before dropping to his knees, graceful as he always is.

Elias licks a long line up Jon’s cock, base to tip, before sucking wet open mouth kisses along his shaft.

Jon curses, grabbing onto Elias’ hair and bucking his hips forward.

“Yes,” Elias says, taking him in his mouth and sucking hard.

“Good lord,” Jon gasps, his head falling backwards and fingers twisting in Elias’ hair.

Jon’s control slips within seconds and snippets of _Jonah_ curl into him. Moments of fear and unease, snapshots of terror.

The great fear inside of Elias is as simplistic as his I-Owe-You.

Death.

Not to be one to judge, but a killer being afraid of the End is rather…

Off the top of Jon’s head, he can name a dozen atrocities committed in the hopes of immortality. Certainly there are thousands throughout the centuries.

It feels different when it’s someone he knows.

Elias’ eyes open wide and flick up to Jon, a hint of teeth more than enough to tell Jon the reign it in and mind is own business.

It’s fair, and Jon isn’t self-absorbed enough to be unable to put himself in Elias’ shoes. He can’t imagine the reaction he would have if told his own boundaries don’t matter. With effort, Jon pulls Beholding into the back of his mind, ignoring its sulks and scowls.

Unsurprisingly, the pleasure remains soul numbingly good and Jon loses himself in the feel of two centuries worth of experience on Elias’ tongue. It’s good, so damn… good.

Jon tries to stop Elias before he comes, for social niceties if nothing else, but Elias grabs his hips, sucking him in deeper, head bobbing faster and swallowing Jon down.

Jon falls back against the table, panting and boneless in the wake of his orgasm.

“Good boy,” Elias chuckles, running his fingers through Jon’s hair. “Now,” he says, pulling Jon up and steadying him towards the bed. “Get some sleep.”

Jon scrunches up his nose at the thought of that bed.

Elias sighs noisily and picks up his trench coat from the ground, yanking everything but the kitchen sink out of it before wrapping it around Jon and shoving him on the bed.

He’d call it a small blessing, but, frankly, he doesn’t know where the coat’s been either.

At least it’s not the sheets.

“Ass,” Jon grumbles before his body rebels against his disgust and he falls sleeps.

* * *

Jon wakes the next morning in the godawful bed of unspeakably disgusting mysteries, wrapped in Elias’ long coat, protecting him from the covers.

He turns around, looking for Elias, but finds himself alone in the room. It’s not that Jon wanted him to stay, he can’t imagine _cuddling_ with Elias, of all things, but… it’s not the greatest feeling in the world to acknowledge last night as a business transaction.

All the same, Jon can’t help the good mood that washes over him.

He did it.

He succeeded.

He _saved the world._

Jon rolls out of bed, stretching sore muscles and an even more raw head.

Note to self, Jon thinks, do a warm up workout before abusing Beholding.

In the shower, the water fights against long neglected pipes but gets there eventually. Clean and clear; even the cheapest of hotel soaps is positively heavenly as he washes off the last of the Dark.

He unpacks fresh rolled up clothes and glances at the desk. Last night’s desk. Elias still has his possessions scattered on the floor. From Jon’s cursory glance nothing appears interesting; plane tickets, passport, items of a personal nature, like Elias packed up his… occupational essentials before ghosting him.

Whatever it is that an assassin deems ‘essential.’ Jon doesn’t _look_ , instead turning his attention to Elias’ coat, left overnight.

It was thoughtful, in a slapdash sort of way.

Jon shakes it out, ordering himself not to thieve the items left inside. He can’t imagine what tantrum Elias would throw over that. He only wants to catalogue the space, really. Four pockets on the outside, eight that are easily accessible on the inside, two in the back panel. There’s a dubious snag in the sleeve. Velcro and elastic hooks. It would be ridiculous if not for the fact that they _must_ have been custom added and Elias would have sewn them in as needed.

It’s a cold reminder of what Elias is, even overlooking his dizzying past.

Jonah Magnus.

Jesus Christ.

Jon wonders if he could ever be turned to the Hunt.

Feeling rather like a child trying on a costume, Jon slips the coat on. It fits well enough and is warmer than it looks. A Hunters coat. A former Beholder’s coat.

Logically, he knows that Elias must have once been as Jon is now. Inexperienced, curious, in over his head yet still somehow keeping afloat… But Jon can’t imagine a world where this coat wouldn’t fit him like a joke. It’s hard to view himself objectively in the mirror when he knows he isn’t worldly or sly, that he’d never figure out what to do with all pockets.

He thinks of Gertrude’s crusade. Her ruthlessness cunning and efficiency in stopping rituals and avatars alike. Was she, perhaps, aligned with the Hunt as well?

Is this an inevitable path?

The door opens and Jon cringes, knowing instinctively who it will be. Stuck in the embarrassing position of wearing Elias’ clothing, Jon blushes.

Damnit.

Elias pauses, staring at him before slowly shutting the door and entering.

Jon clears his throat, mortified and trying not to show it as he begins to shuck off Elias’ coat.

Elias raises his hand in a halting gesture. He drops his overnight bag on the floor and crosses the room in quick stride. “It looks good on you,” he says, grabbing the lapels and tugging it back in place. Patting down the leather, readjusting the fit and smoothing it out, making Jon presentable. Elias steals a kiss before moving back a step and looking Jon over. “Perfect,” Elias concludes, with an indefinable gleam in his eyes.

Jon licks his lips, unsure if the kiss is meant to mean anything or if it is just Elias baiting him. As usual.

Kissing has always seemed a rather… intimate emphasis. He wouldn’t randomly kiss a co-worker, or even a friend. Or a friendly acquaintance.

“No,” Jon says, brows knit together in confusion. “I look ridiculous.”

Elias gives him a _look_ , like he thinks Jon is the last person on earth who should have a say in what he does and doesn’t wear well.

Jon rolls his eyes. “Are you returning to London, then?”

Elias shakes his head.

Going their separate ways… Good. Elias is more trouble than he’s worth.

“I have questions, first.”

“Of course you do,” Elias says, backing away to pick up his possessions strewn about on the floor from last night. Jon notices his hands are already full and he has no doubt he would find the coat pockets empty, if he checked.

Jon rolls his eyes, even if he’s somewhat impressed.

“Well?” Elias asks.

“Right,” Jon says, trying to figure out where to start. “Um…”

Jon pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. Details are what he wants. To skip the formalities and demand Elias’ life story.

Elias asks, “Which are you most curious about; the ‘how’ or the ‘why’?”

Jon thinks of his co-workers, trapped in the Archives more securely than in chains.

Perhaps Elias got free of Beholding through a loophole or technicality. One that he could use to free his friends. “The how.”

“The same as you, I suspect,” Elias says, packing his things back up before leaning against the table. “A slow descent into a patron’s loving embrace,” he teases.

Slow, yes, and yet… Not at all. Jon remembers it like a sudden epiphany, the realization he was not an archivist, but The Archivist. Logically, yes, he supposes it was slippery slope all along, but it _felt_ rather sudden. One day, everything turned on its head. He had to begin tripping over his words to phrase each question as a neutral suggestion and come to terms with the fact that his dreams were nightmares being experienced by others.

Still, Jon nods in understanding. “And?”

“ _And,_ as I was not fond of being a victim due to another power’s ascension I dedicated a not insubstantial amount of energy to preventing any rituals I happened across; hindering those foolish enough to choose a patron other than my own. As you’ve noticed, I’m rather good at it. Originally, I attributed my success to research. To the Eye. But, as time went on… I found I didn’t need books and statements to know how to stop an Avatar. I only needed _myself._ Beholding became less and less useful to me and I became less and less useful to it.” Elias shrugs. “The institute was hardly turning a profit, whereas there were many willing to pay a pretty sum, providing I do for _them_ what I had planned to do regardless.”

“So the Hunt just… poached you? The Eye didn’t mind?”

Elias raises his eyebrows. “Oh, Jon. Really? The Beholding is not a crime boss, killing detractors. Perhaps it noticed, perhaps not.”

Jon _feels_ that Elias is wrong to think Beholding has thought nothing of his breaking ties. The stale moldy taste of Elias’ statement, a hint as to its feelings on anything Elias has to say to it.

“But… no,” Jon argues. “No, I’ve _seen_ Jonah Magnus. His portrait is in the lobby.”

“Listen to yourself, Jon. You’ve seen paintings? I’m sorry to be the one to say, but antiques are not facts.”

Jon washes his hands over his face.

“Poor Archivist,” Elias teases. “Did you just find out your life was a lie?”

“Shut up,” Jon scowls, half heartedly. “What’s your reason why, then?”

Elias looks, momentarily, like he’s debating with himself whether to answer sincerely or not, before he shrugs. “The Hunt offered me what Beholding did not.”

“Which is?” But even as Jon asks, he knows the answer. Just like Trevor Herbert, dying of cancer before he began serving the Hunt.

Jon supposes he must have visibly worked it out in his mind because instead of explaining Elias says, “Precisely,” in a deep whisper of satisfaction. “ _I_ never died, but they did. Does that answer satisfy you, Archivist?”

Jon shrugs. It’s not what he wanted to hear, no. It’s all well and good for Elias to find his place in the gears of life, but it does little to help his friends.

“Do you know,” Elias says, “I think it will be a pleasure to work with you again.”

Jon raises his eyebrow. “You already used up your favor.”

“I did, didn’t I? I suppose I’ll just have to ask you out the old fashioned way.”

“What?”

“Let me take you out.”

“As in… a date?” Jon asks, thinking of the many tourist traps Norway has to offer.

“I know a band you’ll love to see.”

“I don’t like bands.” Certainly not live ones, where he can’t hear himself think and the lightings sole purpose is to weed out those with seizure disorders.

“You’ll like this one. Bit difficult to track down, but once you figure out their M.O. it’s child’s play to acquire tickets.”

Jon narrows his eyes. An assassin hunting down musicians? He has a niggling suspicion he’s read this statement before. “What band? …Elias? Who’s the lead singer?”

“Alfred Grifter, I believe.”

Jon groans.

Alfred Grifter. Grifter's Bone. Avatars of the Slaughter.

“That is a _terrible_ idea. In what way do you think this is a good partnership?” he asks, floored by Elias’ interpretation – misinterpretation – of their team dynamic.

It was easier to work with Tim, after the Prentis attack, when everything went wrong and resolution seemed forever out of reach.

“I will admit,” Elias says, “There was an unfortunate learning curve.”

“Is this – was this how your relationship with Gertrude went?”

Elias gives him a surprised look, then chuckles. “Gertrude never made me want to chase her.”

“What? …Elias, if the stress you’ve put me under was nothing more than you _pulling my pigtails_ , I swear to god…”

Elias looks thoughtful, like this is a point of view he hadn’t considered. “Hard to say,” he admits. “You _are_ deeply annoying.”

Jon makes a sound half-way between a scoff and a laugh. Elias is not the first one to say that. “Thanks.”

“ _And_ ,” Elias says, emphasizing the word, “brave. I might go so far as to call you ‘heroic’ Jon.”

Jon’s fluster at the idea of being a ‘hero’ lasts only as long as it takes him to remember he didn’t tap into personal reserves of strength and determination to stop the Extinguished Sun, but rather a cruel and calculated evil.

That, and Elias put in just as much effort as he did. It’s a hell of a grading curve to call Elias a hero.

“I can’t be attracted to brave, prickly heroes?” Elias asks, like Jon is somehow trying to shame him.

“And yet,” Jon argues, “I notice I can’t _see_ you.”

Elias doesn't reply. Maybe it was unfair for Jon to say it like an accusation. It’s only that he’s not used to people taking actual precautions against Beholding and if Elias was telling the truth, if he slept with him because…

Still. They’re a long way off from ‘trust’ entering the equation.

“Fine,” Jon says, relenting. “In that case, I can’t promise I won’t bring a spray bottle next time I see you. A rolled up newspaper, perhaps.”

“I could have sworn,” Elias says, “that such comments were what landed you in trouble the first time.”

Jon’s lips twist in a scowl when he sees the teasing amusement in Elias’ expression. “No,” Jon counters. “It was _you_ pulling the trigger that landed me in trouble.”

“All the more reason to make it up to you.”

“On our Slaughter date?” Jon asks, flatly.

Elias conveniently ignores the intent behind the words and takes them at face value. “Precisely. Assuming they stay their course it shouldn’t take longer than a week before they’ve resurfaced in Birmingham. And, if not, I’m sure I can persuade them. Shall I get in touch with you before then?”

Honestly, Jon doesn’t know how to reply to that. If he wants this to go further than it already has, or to drop it now and call it an ill-advised hook up.

He supposes that’s the point of dating. To find out.

At his silence Elias sighs, “Oh, of course I will.”

“You’ll contact _me_ , Elias. Leave my friends out of it.”

“Or you’ll hurt me?”

“Something tells me it won’t be much of a deterrent but… yes. Yes, I will.”

Elias smiles. “Between us, then,” he says before looking Jon over one last time and heading out.

Jon sighs when the door clicks closed, shaking out tension he hadn’t been aware he was carrying.

Jon looks at himself in the bathroom mirror, stood in the empty room with Elias’ coat fitted around him.

Jon thinks back to last night with perfect clarity, all Beholding.

There’s a pro and con list if he’s ever had one. They won. Jon had his heroes moment. …but there is death, too. That he will have to learn to live with. Murders committed right in front of him that he was thankful for.

He doesn’t think his friends will begrudge him vague details. They’ll understand if it’s hard for him to speak of, but he has to tell them _something_.

It’s almost funny that a pseudo date with Elias – Jonah Magnus – will be the easiest part of the tale.

He sighs.

A date with a Hunter. To confront the Slaughter.

No. No, Jon has no idea how he’s going to explain any of this madcap adventure to anyone.


End file.
